


Communicable

by pocky_slash



Series: Team Shithead [8]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Graduate School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: The tropical theme of von Steuben's latest party turns out to be the perfect environment to pass along a gross and debilitating winter cold. As the cough and mucous and general malaise spread beyond von Steuben's clique to the rest of the school, some people's immune systems are hit harder than others, like, for example, a scrawny overworked parapsych student whose main hobby as a child was getting sick.(AKA everyone passes a gross death cold back and forth until Washington is forced to quarantine half the lab.)





	Communicable

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so long! Sincerely! I wanted it to be done much sooner.
> 
> About a half-dozen people requested sick fic when I first started taking prompts in this verse back in October. I'm so sorry it took me this long to finish it and that I didn't have anything to post in March or April. At least I'm getting this in before May is totally over? :D?
> 
> Anyway, I hope it was worth the wait (and you understand now why I don't post unfinished WsiP). For anyone new to this series, you might want to read the rest of it first, but if you don't have time to cover over 200,000 words of backstory, just know that this is an AU where ghosts are real and our gang is in grad school to study them.
> 
> A couple notes--someone asked me who I envision playing Molly like, a million years ago, so here is some fancasting:  
> Molly -> [BK Cannon](https://www.google.com/search?q=bk+cannon&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj-99CYyojUAhVo1oMKHTm5Cl8Q_AUICygC&biw=1197&bih=680)  
> Dolley -> [Shoba Narayan](http://www.shoba-narayan.com/gallery/)  
> Mrs. W -> [Chandra Wilson](http://www.chandrawilson.com/gallery/)  
> Von Steuben -> [Dave Malloy](https://www.google.com/search?q=dave+malloy&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj4hpG1zIjUAhVG5yYKHUblAmgQ_AUICygC&biw=1197&bih=680)
> 
> Finally, [Commercialism, Merit Badges, and Liquid Courage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9949901) takes place in the middle of this story.

In the end, John blames Molly for everything. If nothing else, she starts it. Patient Zero.

They're at a party at von Steuben's place. John isn't sure what the theme _technically_ is this month, but everyone had to surrender their pants at the door, which forced a couple regulars back out to their homes to retrieve the under garments that are normally not strictly necessary at these things. It's cold as dicks outside, frigid, really. The wind is so biting that John feels it down in his bones even when he's only walking as far as the parking lot. Alex, who normally chides John for babying him when he reminds him to wear a scarf or sweater, has been shaking like a leaf any time he has to step outside for more than a second. 

The party, though, is nice and warm. Hot, even--John's shed his flannel shirt, leaving him in a henley with the sleeves rolled up that he's considering taking off as well. In fact, most of the guests are slowly stripping further and further down--the heat is blasting, the bodies packed into the house make it even warmer, and the cocktail of the evening is something fruity and tropical. In the sun room, where most people go to smoke up, von Steuben's been demonstrating various flaming shot techniques all night. It's a nice respite from the weather, which is probably the point.

John's pleasantly sweaty and pleasantly drunk, sitting on the sofa with Alex on his lap. Alex is also pleasantly drunk and currently working on slowly and casually pushing John's shirt up higher and higher as they talk with some people about how shitty the buses have been during this cold snap. John pretends he doesn't notice and absently wonders how much longer they're going to stick around before abandoning the main party to have sex in whatever room Alex managed to call dibs on last night.

Alex has just vacated John's lap to get them fresh drinks when Molly flops down onto the couch next to him, a glass of wine in one hand and a fistful of tissues in the other. She's stripped down to her underwear and bra, each in a wildly different clashing pattern. She catches John's amused smile and gestures at him with the wine sharply.

"I didn't know I was going to an underwear party when I got dressed this morning, okay?" she says. Her voice is hoarser than usual, though it might just be from shouting to be heard over the music.

"I didn't say anything!" John insists. "I think the pink hearts and flowers go really well with the candy canes and presents."

Molly manages to flip him off without dropping any of the tissues. John really fucking likes Molly--there are about a dozen or so grad students working in von Steuben's lab and most of them are loners or hyper-focused on their work. Molly is a cheerfully sarcastic extrovert, whip smart and fascinated with the physics of parapsychology. Rumor has it she got into MIT's Molecular Physics program and chose to come to Morristown and study parapsych instead, though when John asked her about it, all she would say is that the pizza in Cambridge is garbage.

Molly's ire is redirected across from them, where the two people John and Alex had been chatting with are perched on a loveseat. He thinks they're studying some kind of natural science--they mentioned earlier, but he was more focused on the way Alex's t-shirt was riding up his back than what they were saying. One of them, a tall, thin blonde girl, is giving Molly a look that John can only describe as smug. It takes him a moment to figure out what she's so smug about--sure, Molly's underthings don't match, but that's more funny than anything else. Molly wouldn't look that annoyed with her if that was it. When he does figure it out, he's almost embarrassed.

"Yes," she snaps at the girl, "I'm fat and I have no problem taking all my clothes off when it's ninety fucking degrees indoors. How hilarious. If you have a problem with it, let me know--I'll be sure to tell my boss not to invite your ass to the next party."

The girl and her gender-ambiguous cohort roll their eyes and get up from the loveseat, wandering away without another word. Molly glares at them as they go and then coughs into her fistful of tissues.

"You're not fat," John says awkwardly. John isn't an expert on the general attractiveness of women, but he knows that Molly is chubby, sure, but also objectively cute.

"Fat's a descriptor, not an insult, Laurens," Molly says. She sighs--she's had this discussion before and John feels even more awkward.

"I guess you're right," he says. "I just meant--she was obviously trying to--you know, be judgey. And you should ignore her because you're like...pretty." He winces. "I mean, you're really smart and cool and all of that..." He gestures vaguely at her, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "...it's all...you know...nice. Your...body and all that."

"Oh my god, you're so gay," she says, but she's blushing and grinning a little. "Thanks, Laurens, now please shut up."

"Great," he says. She's right--he's way too gay to continue a conversation where he praises the desirability of a woman in her underwear. "Let's talk about literally anything else."

Molly holds her glass out in toast, but then starts coughing again and can't seem to stop, pressing the tissues against her mouth. She has to clear her throat a few times once she's finished, and Alex reappears before she can get her wits about her again. He drops back down onto John's lap and hands him a drink.

"Hey, Molly," he says. "Nice underwear."

She coughs again, flipping Alex off as she does so.

"You okay, Mol?" John asks. 

Molly nods weakly. "I thought it was just the fucking heat in here." Her voice is hoarse again, even after she continues to clear her throat repeatedly. "But I might be getting sick."

At the word "sick," Alex freezes in John's arms.

"Don't even fucking _look at me_ ," he warns Molly, putting his drink down and pressing himself as far away from her as possible. He uses John's knee for painful leverage to do it.

"Ow!" John snaps and moves his hand. "Shit!" Alex falls backwards a few inches, then pulls himself up on the arm of the couch, out of John's embrace.

"Fuck, I have the world's shittiest immune system, I get sick if someone looks at me funny," Alex says.

"Then enjoy this germ factory Steubs created," Molly says, gesturing around towards all the half-dressed, sweating bodies pressed into the overly warm space. Alex makes a pained, wounded sound.

"Well," John says, "It's a well known fact that alcohol kills germs." He grabs Alex's drink from the coffee table and hands it back before he tries to run home without putting his pants back on first. "And, if you want to avoid the germs, probably the best course of action would be to lock yourself in a room without any sick people. I'd be happy to join you so you don't get lonely." He puts his hand on Alex's knee and then drags it lightly up towards his hip. "Exercise helps you stay healthy. I could put you through your paces."

"You have _the worst_ lines, I don't know how you ever got me to go home with you in the first place," Alex tells him. 

John pulls his shirt, pushed halfway up to his armpits at this point, over his head in one smooth movement. He raises an eyebrow.

"Okay," Alex says, staring at John's now-bare chest, "but I didn't even see your body until after we had already--"

It's hard for Alex to keep talking with John's mouth covering his own, and after a moment, he stops trying and relaxes into the kiss. John pulls away slowly, then stands up and drapes his shirt over his shoulder.

"Bye, Molly, nice to see you, feel better soon," Alex says. He hops to his feet and grabs John's hand, tugging him out of the living room and up the stairs. John waves at Molly as they go and lets Alex push him into one of the bedrooms.

It's just as warm upstairs as it was downstairs, and John considers cracking the window just a little. It's only a fleeting thought, though--he lounges on the bed as soon as Alex locks the door, window forgotten once he's distracted by Alex peeling off his t-shirt.

"Is it hot in here, or is it just you?" John asks, and Alex's laugh is so unexpected that John is afraid he's going to choke.

"The _worst_ lines," he says, and pounces on John, and suddenly the heat is the last thing on John's mind.

* * *

On Monday, Molly texts John and asks him to cover her office hours.

"Ask her how sick she is," Alex asks from over his shoulder. They're in bed, still, and Alex is clinging to him like a limpet, his eyes even droopier than usual.

 _alex wants to know how sick you are,_ John types. Once he hits send, Alex lowers his head, resting his forehead against John's shoulder. He's shivering, even though John put an extra blanket on the bed the night before.

 _Tell him to buy stock in NyQuil now,_ Molly replies.

"It doesn't look good, babe," John says, and Alex groans quietly. John fires off a quick response, promising to cover for her and bring some books over after work, then drops his phone back onto the mattress and rolls over. Alex is curled up tight, exhausted and miserable. "You don't even know you're gonna get sick."

"I know," Alex says with a mulish frown. "I always get sick. I get sick like, nine times for every one time a normal person gets sick."

John pets Alex's hair and tries not to roll his eyes. It would be easier to feel sympathetic if Alex wasn't prone to massive exaggeration when feeling particularly churlish. He pauses, though, and presses his fingers to Alex's forehead. Is he warmer than usual? John's honestly not entirely sure how to tell if someone has a fever based on feeling their forehead and the two of them are currently buried under about fifteen pounds of blankets, so it's probably nothing, but....

He kisses Alex's forehead. He's fine. His stupid paranoia is just making John paranoid. They'll get up and go to work and Alex will be distracted by shouting at people on the internet and that will be the end of it.

* * *

Alex is not fine. 

John can tell by lunch time that Alex is, in fact, getting sick, and by dinner there's no escaping it. Washington tells John to take him home and put him to bed before he gets the entire lab sick and Alex is so tired and miserable that he doesn't even argue, just lets John scoop up his bag and wrap him up in his coat and half carry him out to the car. He goes to bed without a fight as soon as they get home and is dead asleep by the time John brings him a cup of tea.

Well, fuck.

John puts the mug on the bedside table, resting a dirty plate on top of it to try and keep it warm. He sits on the edge of the bed and combs Alex's sweaty hair off of his forehead. Normally, he loves seeing Alex sleep--it's a rarity that Alex is sleeping while John is awake--but even in sleep Alex looks miserable. John presses a kiss to his forehead and strokes his hair absently, unsure of what else there is to do, both in the immediate sense of making Alex feel better and in the broader sense of filling the rest of his evening. Their friends joke a lot about their co-dependency, but their habit of enabling and encouraging each other's bad decisions aside, John rarely spends more than an hour or two apart from Alex. He honestly isn't sure how to fill the time on his own.

That's fucked up. He knows it's fucked up. But it's also a worry for another day. The more immediate issue is forcing himself to leave Alex and do some work. It's stupid--Alex's hair is sweaty and greasy and tangled, there are a million other things he can make himself do even if Alex is out for the night. Here he is, though, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Alex sleep, smoothing the furrow in his brow with the sweep of a thumb, brushing through his hair.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door to the apartment opening and Lafayette rapping quietly in French as he enters and then moves through the halls. He knocks softly on the door to the bedroom.

"Come in," John says, and the door opens. Laf's headphones are hanging from his neck and he's smiling sympathetically.

"How is our Alexander?" he asks.

"Dead to the world," John says. He forces himself to stand up and stretch and cross the room to where Laf is leaning against the doorway. "Molly's laid up with it, too."

"And half the people who attend those orgies at von Steuben's," Lafayette says. He raises his eyebrows. "Ponce, Vail, Will, and Fran at last count."

"They're not orgies," John says. "'Orgy' implies we're all having sex with each other. Mostly we just have sex separately."

Laf waves a dismissive hand at him. "It's spreading through the school at an alarming rate."

John glances back at Alex again. As loathe as he is to leave him, that reminds him that he has shit to do, still. "Speaking of, I told Molly I'd drop some books off for her. Can you watch him while I'm gone?"

"I can watch television with the door cracked so he can shout for my attention should he need help," Laf offers.

"Fine," John says. "I won't be long, Molly lives in one of those old townhouses by the school."

"I'll miss you terribly." 

John rolls his eyes and then hesitates for only a moment before he darts back over to the bed. He brushes Alex's hair back again and gently kisses his temple. He can _feel_ Laf staring at him as he tucks the blankets more securely around Alex. He looks for just one more second and then gives in and goes to collect Molly's things.

"Shut up," he mutters to a smirking Laf as he brushes past.

"You are very sweet," Laf says. John fights the flush he can feel rising up his neck and concentrates on bundling up and getting his shit together so he can leave and get back already.

*

Molly's roommate lets John into their place and directs him to leave the books on the coffee table. Molly's asleep and the roommate seems to be in the middle of disinfecting the whole house ("She coughed all over everything and could barely raise her hand to cover her mouth and I have a cello performance on Thursday."), so John's in and out in only a few minutes. He stops at the grocery store on the way back, even though it's out of his way, and stocks up on ginger ale and soup and gatorade and tissues and every over the counter cold medicine he can think of. He tries not to wince at the bill as he runs his debit card, reminding himself of how miserable and quiet Alex was this afternoon. Plus, if Alex really gets sick as often as he claims, maybe this is just an investment for the future.

It doesn't really do much to soothe the seventy-five dollar sting, but John's done worse things for love.

Back at the apartment, Lafayette is watching HGTV and Alex hasn't moved from the sprawl that John left him in. John puts away his seventy-five bucks worth of panicked crap and then makes himself comfortable on his side of the bed, propped up against the wall and over the covers, a stack of essays that need grading in easy reach. He only feels a little stupid and sentimental for not setting up shop at the kitchen table like he would on a normal evening.

He gets lost in the world of grading for an hour, or maybe two. He only looks up when he feels Alex stir next to him, groaning and trying to roll over as he falls into a coughing fit.

"Hey, baby, are you awake?"

Alex makes a small, croaky sound and rubs at his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

This time he shrugs and groans quietly, blinking up at John. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his forehead. It's a series of motions that John's become familiar with.

"You're rubbing your eyes," he says. "Do you want to take your contacts out?"

"Yes." It's rough and quiet and followed by a series of hacking coughs, but it's something.

John abandons his grading next to the bed and goes to fetch Alex's contact case and solution. He grabs the NyQuil and a bottle of gatorade and stops to dig in Alex's bag until he finds his glasses case. When he gets back to the bedroom, Alex is struggling to sit up. His complexion has gone greyish, the circles under his eyes more pronounced and sickly. John sits on the edge of the bed next to him and hands him each item as he needs it--lens case, solution, glasses, gatorade. Once he's had a few sips of gatorade, John holds up the NyQuil. 

"I think you should take this," he says. "It'll make you feel better."

"I'm not three years old, you don't need to fucking talk me into taking medicine," Alex grumbles and John can't help his smile.

"There's my shithead boyfriend," he says. "I knew a little fever couldn't keep you down."

Alex flips him off weakly and then sighs and slumps back against the pillows. He swallows the cap full of NyQuil when John hands it to him, makes a face, then chugs the rest of the gatorade. Satisfied, John puts the NyQuil next to the bed--he has a feeling they'll be needing it too frequently to bother putting it away--and notes the time.

"Do you need anything else?" John asks. "Water, tea, tissues, something to eat?"

Alex moves to shake his head, winces, and then mumbles, "No." 

"Do you want me to finish my grading in the kitchen so you can sleep?"

"You don't have to stay."

John rolls his eyes. "That's not what I asked. Do you _want_ me to stay? Or go?"

Alex is quiet. John strokes his hair again, smoothes out the blankets pulled up to his chest. "I don't want you to get sick," he finally says.

"I never get sick," John promises him. "I can stay."

"Okay," Alex says quietly, and closes his eyes. John's heart breaks a little, which is so incredibly stupid--Alex has, at the very worst, the flu. He'll be fine in a couple days, he's not wasting away from consumption. It's just so _strange_ to see him this still, this quiet, this unsure of himself.

John settles back onto his side of the bed and picks up his essays again. He tries to concentrate on grading them, but Alex is restless beside him--rolling this way and that, shifting under the blankets, rearranging his pillows, groaning quietly under his breath. 

"Anything I can do to help?" he asks without looking up from his paper.

"I can't get comfortable," Alex says. "I can't turn my mind off."

John tries to remember the few times he's been sick enough to be bed-ridden. Even in that tiny set of circumstances, there's only a small subset where he's been this level of miserable--when he had the chickenpox in grade school, one time that he had a particularly bad stomach flu when he was ten, and food poisoning that knocked him off his feet for almost two days his freshman year at Harvard. He can just about remember that frustrating restlessness, his body too exhausted to stay awake, but his mind still whirling and unable to quiet.

"Do you want me to get my laptop? I can put something dumb on and we can watch it until you fall asleep."

Alex sighs and curls up into a ball. "No."

"Do you--" John watched a bunch of dumb shows on Netflix when he had food poisoning. When he had the chicken pox, he read about forty Hardy Boys books and about twenty of Martha's Nancy Drew books. "--do you want something to read?" When Alex squeezes his eyes shut, John makes a gamble and tries, "Do you want me to read to you?"

Alex doesn't move, but he doesn't dismiss John, either. John gathers his essays into a neat pile and drops them next to the bed. His tablet is within reach and he fishes it off the ground.

"That would be nice," Alex eventually says.

"Okay. A text book? An essay? A novel?" He flicks through the books he has loaded on it: some for school, some for research, some for fun.

"A novel, I guess," Alex says. "Don't have to think about that as much."

"Any requests?" Alex makes a small, dismissive noise, so John flicks back and forth for a moment and finally settles on Harry Potter. Even Alex knows Harry Potter, despite the large chunks of pop cultural knowledge he lacks. It'll be simple, something he doesn't need to think about at all.

John chooses the fourth book at random and starts from the first chapter, taking care to read in a slow, measured voice, the voice he uses on students. He doesn't even get to the Burrow before Alex flops onto his back again and groans. He's so wretched, so angry that he doesn't have a handle on this sickness, that there's nothing he can do, that he just have to live like this until it passes. It makes something in John ache.

"It's not working," Alex says unnecessarily. "I can't--even though I know the story, I'm listening too much. I need to...I need to be distracted, I need to shut my mind off, and I like hearing your voice, but I keep concentrating on the story." He sputters off into another coughing fit and John rubs his back until he settles. There has to be _something_ he can do to help.

The idea comes to John slowly. "I could...read to you in German?"

Alex blinks up at him, frowning. "What?"

"I could read to you in German," John says with a little more conviction. "Or, my Italian's not great, but I could probably manage something dumb on the internet."

"I--maybe," Alex says. "I guess you can try it."

The problem being, of course, that now John has to find something to read. He flips through the books on his tablet and remembers that von Steuben sent him a few links to articles in a journal that he wanted John to look at. He taps over to his email and pulls the first one up. 

"Lie back," he tells Alex. "Close your eyes." Alex fidgets a few more times and finally curls half on his side with his eyes closed. John looks down at him and bites back a smile before launching into the article on his tablet. 

It's basic stuff, really. Good material for John to mine for the study group he runs for von Steuben, but not anything that would be all that interesting to someone like Alex, who's always on top of every new development in their field. Alex has no idea what he's saying, though--no idea when John messes up a pronunciation, no idea when he fumbles his way through a word that's not in his vocabulary. He just lays there and listens, his breathing steady and even and slowing, slowing, until John can tell he's asleep.

He keeps reading for another few minutes, just to be sure, trailing off only when he gets to the end of the article. Alex is, indeed, asleep. He looks even more sickly in the dim glow of the tablet, but at least the twisted grimace has smoothed out. John kind of hates how sentimental and concerned he's getting over something as dumb as a cold or the flu. God forbid Alex is ever seriously ill--John already wants to wince about the hysterical wreck he's sure he'll turn into.

For just tonight, though, he's going to indulge this stupid, maudlin part of him. He puts his tablet on the floor next to the bed, then pushes himself up and wiggles out of his jeans, peeling off his hoodie as well and crawling under the covers. Alex's body is overwarm, but he ignores that and puts his arms around him anyway. 

"You're really ruining my reputation as an asshole, you know that?" 

Alex doesn't respond, of course--John didn't expect it. He sleeps on, undisturbed, and John watches him silently until he, too, gives himself over to slumber.

* * *

The next three days of John's life are spent driving back and forth between campus and the apartment. It's not that he doesn't trust Alex to take care of himself, it's just that he's read too many of those _Reader's Digest_ stories about people whose simple cough turned out to be a deadly exotic disease that nearly killed them in their sleep. Lafayette rolls his eyes and Burr takes eye-rolling to new heights, but Washington is sympathetic and von Steuben is out with the same bug by Alex's second day in bed.

Of course, John doesn't give a shit what they think, especially after Alex mutters, "You don't need to do this, you idiot," while simultaneously curling around John and falling asleep with his head in John's lap. 

On day four, Alex is still coughing but feverless and mobile and back in his regular spirits. He comes into the lab for the second half of the day and throws himself into the work he missed, animated and chattering non-stop. John's so happy to have Alex back that he doesn't even have the heart to yell at him to shut the hell up by the second hour of his stream of conciousness muttering--he's just happy that Alex has the energy to talk at all.

Lafayette, on the other hand, looks a little pale over lunch and is home buried in blankets by dinner. If John thought he'd get a brief respite from playing nursemaid, he's proven wrong when he comes back from the gym to find Alex disinfecting every surface and wearing a face mask. He sighs and heads into the kitchen to make Lafayette some tea and shakes his head when Alex makes him practically bathe in hand sanitizer when he gets back.

It doesn't get any better the second day, and John has to accept that he's going to have little help in watching over Lafayette. 

"You were just sick!" John insists, after juggling soup and two mugs into Laf's room all on his own. "You're not gonna get sick again so fast!"

"World's shittiest immune system, remember?" Alex says. "I'm not gonna chance it."

"He's our roommate," John says, punching Alex's shoulder. "He took care of you while you were sick."

"He begrudgingly watched me while you were out," Alex says. "Also, that's probably the reason why he's sick now, anyway. I'm not chancing it. I wouldn't chance it for anyone."

And John stupidly thinks Alex is exaggerating, right up until he starts to feel a tickle in his own throat on the morning of Laf's last day home sick. He tries to keep it to himself--with the weather being so cold and the heat inside being so warm, his sinuses have been going haywire, so it's probably just a sniffle--but Alex notices when he makes a cup of tea instead of a cup of coffee while finishing up a report later that afternoon.

"You're getting it!" Alex says, backing up quickly. "Stay away from me!"

"I'm fine!" John insists, and then coughs. Alex holds his hands out in front of him, crossing his index fingers like John's a vampire. "You're such a fucking asshole. I hate you."

"Don't breathe on me," Alex says and John sighs loudly and then starts coughing again.

From there it's sharp drop from "feeling a little sniffly and off" to "wheezy headachey exhaustion." John feels like shit by dinner time and Washington, exasperated, sends him home and makes him promise not to come back until he's feeling better.

"I'm going to have to start a quarantine ward," he mutters as John slowly packs his bag and stumbles out towards the car, Alex following at a safe distance.

Alex stays like that the whole car ride home, pressing himself against the door, as far away from John as possible. He puts his surgical mask back on once they get home and uses it to bring John tea and soup before retreating to the living room.

"Are you going to sleep out there too?" John calls out hoarsely, torn between exasperation and misery.

"Probably," Alex calls back.

Tired, sore, and weak, John absolutely does not let himself tear up at that. He's just got a fucking cold, it's not the end of the world. He can manage one night without his shithead boyfriend sleeping six inches away from him. He curls up under the blankets and squeezes his eyes shut. His head is pounding and his throat is so sore it hurts when he breathes. He just wants to sleep, but he can't get comfortable, can't find a way to prop himself up so he'll stop coughing and wheezing long enough to fall asleep.

This is _balls_ and he _hates Alex_.

He does fall asleep eventually. When he wakes up next, there's a steaming mug of tea and some crackers next to the bed. When he wakes up again, sometime later, Alex is curled up next to him. He doesn't cry because he's not five years old, but he maybe sniffles a little and rolls over so he can wrap his arms around Alex's waist and press his face against his back. Alex stirs at the movement and shifts sleepily, brushing John's hair back.

"Mm, how're you feeling, baby?" he mumbles.

"Sick," John croaks. He sniffles again. God, he's the worst patient, he's _embarrassingly needy_ , but he's too tired to care.

"M'sorry, sweetheart." He must look as bad as he feels if Alex is dropping "sweetheart" into the conversation. And he must be as sick as he feels if he's letting "sweetheart" pass without comment. "S'Molly's fault."

"Your fault," John insists. He squeezes Alex tighter. He's sick, he's allowed to be desperate for the comfort of physical affection.

"Molly gave it to me!" Alex is marginally more awake and shifts around until he's on his back and John's head is pillowed on his chest instead. He rubs John's back. "Laf gave it to you, so if anything, it's his fault."

John sniffles in response and Alex brushes his hair back and murmurs quiet nonsense to him until he settles again.

"Lafayette implied that I was _maybe_ being an asshole earlier," Alex eventually says once John is quiet. "That _perhaps_ I should be more compassionate to my poor, sick boyfriend who took care of me for a week." John deduces that's probably a direct quote, minus some French expletives. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm not really good at being a caregiver. I don't have much practice." 

John's desire to cling to someone who loves him outweighs his desire to further tell Alex off. He makes a quiet, pathetic noise. He's as bad a patient as Alex is a caregiver--he can count the number of times he's gotten sick in the last ten years on one hand. One year when he was at school in Geneva, everyone else in his dorm ended up with the flu and John was stuck sleeping with nine other guys who spent the whole night coughing and moaning and puking. He's not used to feeling this bad, to feeling this helpless and heavy and _awful_. He knows that's not Alex's fault, that it's not Alex's fault that he's spent the majority of his time being a patient and not a nursemaid, and he tries to make himself behave a little more kindly towards him.

"What do you need?" Alex asks after a few minutes of petulant cuddling. "More tea? Water? Soup? Toast? A bath? Tissues? More blankets?"

It almost sounds like Alex is going down a caregiver checklist. In fact--

John cracks open one eye and, yup, Alex is reading off his phone, holding it right up against his face to see without his glasses. John takes pity on him because he's annoyingly sweet, sometimes.

"NyQuil and water and you," he mumbles.

"I can do that," Alex says. "But if you want me to do them in that order, you need to let go of me."

John reluctantly releases his hold and opens his eyes to watch Alex stumble out of bed and disappear into the hallway. Only a few minutes pass until he returns, but they feel endlessly long and John can barely keep his eyes open.

"Temperature," Alex says, holding up the thermometer Laf borrowed from the Washingtons for them. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses it into John's ear, then tuts at the result when it beeps with a readout. "Hm. Well, NyQuil is a fever reducer."

John nods and then regrets it when the world spins.

"Hey, hey, hey," Alex says. "Stay still, sweetheart. Hold on one second, okay?" He fumbles to put on his glasses, then pours out the NyQuil and hands the little cup to John. John winces at the taste as he swallows it and gratefully drinks from the straw that Alex provides for him afterward. The water is lukewarm, but it's good enough for the moment and probably better than cold water where his scratchy throat is concerned. 

When John has drunk his fill, Alex puts the cup on the nightstand and then goes around to climb into the other side of the bed. 

"It's a little after two, so you can have more medicine at eight," Alex says. "It'll put you to sleep, I think."

"S'why its called NyQuil," John mumbles. "There's another one--DayQuil--that's the during the day. I mean, you can take them whenever, but if you take the NyQuil during the day, then you get sleepy, but sometimes that's okay and sometimes you're sleepy anyway--"

John yawns and Alex uses the break to gently cover John's mouth with his hand.

"You're rambling pretty nonsensically and, I'm not gonna lie, it's cute as fuck, but it probably means you need to sleep."

"M'kay," John says and closes his eyes. "I'll go to sleep."

"You do that, gumdrop."

And he does.

* * *

John's sick for about three days, which sucks, but isn't nearly as terrible as it could be. By the third day, the fever's broken and he's tired, but alert and bored and ready to get back to work.

They're still a man down when John returns to the lab, however.

"Mr. Burr caught it," Washington says. "He's home resting with orders not to return until he's recovered, and, god willing, that will be the end of that."

It isn't, of course. Someone has to bring Burr some things from the lab and John volunteers, which should mean that it's John who gets hit again, but instead it's Lafayette whose cough lingers as he looks more and more exhausted over the course of the week. John has to wake him up on Friday after he sleeps through his alarm. He heads into the lab anyway, and Washington immediately locks him in the office and marches out to the lab with his cellphone pressed between his ear and shoulder.

"I told him to stay home," John tells Washington. Alex is in the far corner of the lab rubbing down everything he can reach with antibacterial wipes, while Burr watches him with raised eyebrows.

"Sssh," Washington murmurs, then says, "Gilbert is sick again." He must be talking to Mrs. Washington. "Mmhm. I told him that, but he's being particularly stubborn...I know, dear, I tried--there's no need to do that, I'm perfectly capable of--I'm sure there are more important things you can be--" He sighs. "Fine. I love you too. I'll see you shortly."

He hangs up and shakes his head to himself, then turns back to John, Alex, and Burr. Alex holds out a Lysol spray bottle threateningly.

"As of right now, this lab is under quarantine," he tells them. "Martha is coming to collect Gilbert. Should any of you begin to feel ill again, you'll be headed straight to our house until you're feeling better in order to keep this bug from circulating through, quote, 'the horrifying cesspool of three twenty-three year old boys.' Mr. Burr, you're included in this as well, however. No one is allowed back into this lab without at least two fever- and illness-free days under their belt. We're not going to get anything done this term if we spend the whole thing trading illness back and forth."

"I might as well pack a bag now," Alex mutters darkly.

"Babe, you've disinfected everything within an inch of its life," John says.

"I told you, I get sick nine hundred times for every one time a normal person gets sick!" Alex insists. "I'm surprised Laf caught it again and not me!"

"First of all, numerically, that's impossible," John says. "Secondly, maybe if you chill out and eat regularly and sleep regularly, you'll build your immune system up enough to handle getting a cold."

"Pot, kettle," Alex says.

Before John can fire back with a reminder that a) he's cut back on work _a lot_ this semester, and b) _he never fucking gets sick_ , Washington pointedly clears his throat.

"Laurens, can you pack a bag for Gilbert? Martha or I will drive by and pick it up tonight."

"Don't worry about it," John says. "I can drop it off. We have your thermometer, still, anyway."

"You'd better shower before you get in bed with me tonight," Alex mutters.

"Maybe I can just sleep in the car," John shoots back.

Alex flips him off, and before John can escalate the squabbling, Washington clears his throat _again_ , more sharply this time.

"Eat well. Sleep well. Drink orange juice. Use hand sanitizer." He looks at all three of them in turn. "Stay healthy. We can't spend the entire semester this way. If you feel yourself coming down with something, take it easy and try to limit your exposure to anyone else. I would rather have late grading and assignments than another round of this cold due to overworking yourselves."

"Yes, sir," they all mumble.

"Now, Mr. Burr, I believe you have class," he continues. Burr nods and grabs his bag, giving the office a wide berth as he passes. Once he's gone, Washington turns back to John and Alex. "And you two...I'm sure there's something you're supposed to be doing."

"Probably," John admits. "Library?"

"Fine," Alex says with a sigh, and they busy themselves with bundling up against the weather and getting their bags together to cross the frigid campus.

"You don't need to be so fucking dour," John says as they crunch through the ice melt and rock salt debris that litters the pathways through campus.

"I'm gonna get sick again," Alex says glumly. "I'm gonna get sick, tomorrow is fucking Valentine's Day and I'm going to ruin our dumb date with my sickness, you'll probably throw me over for Burr or something, and I'll have no one to nurse me back to health, so I'll waste away from this death plague."

It's only the reluctance to play into Alex's dramatics that keeps John from rolling his eyes. 

"Well, to start with, Burr's straight," he says instead.

"Then Ben Walker or something."

"Ben Walker's a shithead."

" _I'm_ a shithead," Alex says mournfully. "That clinches it. You said that's your favorite thing about me."

"I mean, your dick ranks up there too...."

Alex sighs and pulls his beanie down further over his head, muttering to himself, and John gives in and elbows him gently.

"You're not going to die alone of a stupid cold, dumbass," he says. " _If_ you even get sick again, you'll be back to your normal annoying self in a week, and even if you do end up being the first otherwise healthy twenty-two year old dude to die suddenly of the sniffles, I'll be sad as fuck and even Chris Hemsworth, sweaty and shirtless after running to my aid straight from a movie set, won't be able to soothe my pain until _at least_ a month or so after the funeral."

Alex punches him, then threads his arm through John's and huddles close.

"You're such a fucking asshole."

"I'm _your_ asshole," John reminds him, and it's enough to settle his dramatics, at least for the moment.

* * *

Saturday dawns cold and grey, but Alex is out of bed at his normal time and already [driving John crazy in preparation for the Valentine's Day date he pulled out of his ass on Thursday afternoon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9949901) once he realized the holiday was looming. 

On Sunday, however, Alex is still asleep when John wakes up. John groans and reaches out gently to feel Alex's forehead. He hasn't learned any better in the past week how to detect a fever, but the way that Alex sluggishly rolls over and buries his face in John's pillow is just as clear an indicator. It also explains why Alex was so quiet and exhausted during their downtime yesterday.

"Well, shit," John says.

He takes a quick shower and makes an effort to put on clean clothes buried deep in their dresser instead of throwing on something he's worn recently that's possibly contaminated. He throws some pajamas into a bag for Alex, along with a hoodie, the pouch with all his contact stuff, some underthings, and, in a fit of sentimentality that he'll deny should anyone bring it up, the crocheted blanket at the end of the bed that John's grandmother made for his mother, the one that Alex sometimes wears around the apartment like a cape.

"Baby, wake up," John says, shaking Alex's shoulder. He groans and rolls over again. "Alex, come on. We're going to the Washingtons' place."

That elicits a slightly more coherent response. Alex lifts his head and blinks blearily at John. "What?"

"Washington said anyone who gets sick again is quarantined. That's you, dumbass."

"Don't wanna move," Alex mutters.

Despite the fact that Alex was kind of shithead to him when he was sick last week, John feels a pang at Alex's bleary vulnerability. He's also carrying some residual affection from last night and the very sweet Valentine's Day date that Alex took him on. He'll never stop being annoyed with how much he'll let Alex get away with just because he's cute every once in awhile.

"I know," John says. "I'm sorry, baby. Think you're up for a shower?"

Alex makes a weak, negative sound.

"Okay, well, let's at least get your teeth brushed and put you in fresh clothes before subjecting the Washingtons to you," John says. He runs his fingers through Alex's hair and spreads them wide when Alex presses into the touch, cradling his head. "Come on. The faster we do this, the faster we can get you bundled up in a bed over there, okay?"

"You're the worst," Alex says hoarsely.

"I'm the best boyfriend and you love me," John tells him, and then helps him stumble out of bed. 

John gets Alex into the bathroom and puts the lid down on the toilet, then sits him there. He sways precariously for just a second and then steadies, drawing a sigh of relief out of John. 

"I'm gonna grab you some fresh clothes," John says. "Stay here."

"Where the hell else would I go?"

John ignores him, reminds himself that Alex probably feels like crap, that Alex probably started feeling like crap last night but fought his dramatic tendencies to take John on a really nice date regardless. He owes Alex some compassion.

Plus, he loves him, or whatever.

John grabs clean clothes from the pile on top of the dresser, sweats and boxers and a t-shirt, and stops in the living room to grab the fluffy grandpa cardigan that Alex sometimes wears around the house when it gets cold. He leaves them all with Alex in the bathroom, instructs him to shout if he needs help, and goes back into the bedroom to make a call. The phone rings twice before it occurs to John that calling early on a Saturday morning might not be the best idea. Someone picks up on the other end before he can hang up in a panic.

"Hello?" It's Mrs. Washington and she sounds cheerful and awake, so he feels marginally less guilty.

"Hi, Mrs. Washington, this is John Laurens," he says.

"Good morning, John. Are you looking for Gilbert?"

"Uh, no. Sort of. I mean--well, when Dr. Washington told us to call you if any of the rest of us got sick, was he being serious?"

Mrs. Washington hums quietly. "Are you not feeling well, dear?"

"Not me," John says. "I'm pretty sure Alexander is sick again."

"I see. Well, as soon as he feels up to the ride, bring him over. I'll make up Patsy's room."

"Great," John says. "I'm trying to get him changed, but he's an ass--" He stops himself just in time. "Um. He's difficult when he's sick. So. Sorry in advance."

"If you knew Jack when he was a teenager, you wouldn't be so concerned," Mrs. W says dryly. "I'll see you soon, John."

John murmurs a goodbye and returns to the bathroom, where Alex is dressed and half-heartedly brushing his teeth. He's mostly asleep again and his skin is tinged a sickly sallow color. John shakes his head and gently pries the toothbrush out of Alex's hand.

"Spit; rinse."

"I'm not a fucking infant," Alex mutters, but it's muffled by a yawn and he closes his eyes and leans back against John as soon as he's cleaned out his mouth.

"You can't go back to sleep yet," John warns him. "We need to drive across town."

"Just lemme be sick here."

"If I do that then I'll get sick again and Laf'll get sick again and you'll get sick again...." There's no guarantee that's true, but John understands Washington's hesitation. Plus, as much as he loves Alex, he'd like to do all he can to avoid getting sick again. Once was enough for at least another few years. "C'mon, babe, let's get your shoes on and get going."

It's a slow shuffle down to the car and, despite the bitter cold, Alex falls asleep almost the moment he's buckled into the passenger seat. John has to shake him awake again once they get to the Washingtons', and Alex is just as resistant as he was the first time.

"Leave me alone," he mumbles.

"This has got to be uncomfortable as hell--just get up and come inside and you can be in a bed in two minutes, asshole," John says. He reaches across Alex to unbuckle his seatbelt and all but drags him up the front path and to the door. It opens before he can even ring the bell.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Washington says. He steps aside and gestures for them to come in, "Let's get Hamilton into bed." 

Alex is a dead weight on the short trek from the front door to the bedroom where Mrs. W is waiting for them. John considers picking him up and carrying him, but this whole production is already more embarrassing than he'd like. 

"I'm sorry you're feeling poorly, Alexander," Mrs. W says. She helps John pull him into the bedroom and ease him back onto the mattress. The room has already been turned into a sick nest. There are blankets piled on the edge of the bed, a stack of pillows keeping Alex propped up enough to help ease his coughing, a glass of water on the bedside table, a collection of over the counter medications, and a teevee tray set up with tissues, the teevee remote, and cough drops. "You know, I don't think I knew that you wear glasses."

"Contacts," Alex mutters, already closing his eyes again.

"I know you'd never guess from the way he dresses himself, but he's pretty vain," John says. Alex mutters a few choice words in French about John under his breath, which John ignores. "I brought his contact stuff on the off-chance he's feeling better, but don't let him put them in until he's going to be up for a solid few hours if you can help it--" John fishes the contact pouch out of the bag and holds them out for Mrs. W. "--they irritate him if he falls asleep wearing them."

"Noted," she says, amused.

"I also brought some clothes and a sweater that he likes and his tablet," John continues, going through the bag. "And, uh--" He pulls out the afghan. Alex opens his eyes and blinks at John a few times, then reaches out to grab the blanket.

"Mine," he mumbles, and hugs it against his chest like a teddy bear. It does something soft and warm to John's insides.

"I'll take very good care of him, Mr. Laurens, I promise you," Mrs. Washington says. She squeezes John's shoulder and gives him a very no-nonsense reassuring smile. "Now, let's get him settled, shall we?"

Alex provides a mumbled fussy commentary as John takes off his shoes and Mrs. Washington begins to load him up with medications. He's still muttering once he's tucked into bed again, but it's slurred and sleepy and his eyes aren't open any longer. John takes off his glasses and folds them on the teevee table. Mrs. Washington taps him on the shoulder and gestures to the doorway of the room, so John leans over and kisses Alex's forehead, then follows her out. She closes the door quietly behind them.

"He'll be just fine, John," she says. "It's just going to take some time. His body can only do as much as it can do as fast as it can do it."

"I know," John says, and he does, but that doesn't make it suck any less. 

"Why don't you have a cup of coffee before you go? I was just about to bring some tea in for Gilbert and I'm sure he'd like a visitor while he's awake."

They probably should have stopped by yesterday, or even texted to see how Laf was doing, but they were so caught up in doing stupid couple stuff for Valentine's Day that it totally slipped John's mind. He's gotta get better about that--he promised himself when he first met Alex that he wouldn't let whatever happened between the two of them completely eclipse his relationships with Laf and Herc. He's failed on that pretty hard.

"That's a good idea," he says instead of self-flagellating any further. "He is...?"

Mrs. W points down the opposite side of the hall. "The one that's cracked a little. I think he's watching television, if he hasn't fallen back to sleep already. How do you take your coffee?"

"Milk and a couple sugars," John says. "Thanks."

"It's no problem, John. Now go on."

Lafayette is, in fact, awake when John peers in through the crack in the door.

"John!" he croaks happily when he notices, and gestures for John to come join him. The room is a little homier than Alex's--there are pictures on the dresser and books on the shelves that are undoubtedly Lafayette's, and while he also has a teevee table covered in NyQuil and gatorade and tissues, his things are strewn more haphazardly about. He's comfortable here, and for a moment, John wonders what made him get an apartment on his own when he first came to Morristown, especially given how uncomfortable he is living by himself.

"Hey, Laf," John says, pulling the chair over from the desk to the bed. Blue, who had been sleeping on the foot of the bed, jumps down to the floor and puts his paws up on John's knees. Washington's dogs both know he's a total pushover, and he doesn't hesitate in patting his lap and letting the terrier jump up to sit there. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," he says. "I just want to sleep and yet, my brain will not let me sleep any longer."

John scratches Blue behind the ears. "That sucks. Is there anything you need or want from home?"

Laf yawns and then coughs and then sneezes and then coughs some more. John inches back a little further from the bed.

"Sorry I asked," he says.

"Everything makes me cough," Lafayette wheezes. "I talk, I cough, I sneeze, I cough, I drink, I cough, I cough, I cough more." He grabs a tissues from the teevee table and wipes his nose. "I would like my Brown hoodie, please, and those socks that Dolley gave me for Christmas. And all of the books on the table next to my bed--I think there are three of them. I have everything else, I think."

"Can do," John says. "In case you didn't hear, Alex is in the room next door, so I'll probably be back and forth a couple times in the next few days."

Laf rolls his eyes. "'A couple times.'"

"Shut up," John says. "You should be saving your breath so you don't start coughing again."

"Fine," Laf says. He points to the teevee. "We are watching _Chopped_. It's a marathon and if this annoying white lady does not go home by the end of this round, I'm starting a mutiny."

"You can't start a mutiny on a television show that you're not on. Especially over an episode that was probably filmed like, a couple years ago at least."

"Sssssh, stop engaging with me so I can save my breath."

Much to Laf's satisfaction, the lady in question does go home at the end of the round, just as Mrs. Washington knocks on the door with their tea, coffee, a plate of toast, and a bowl of fruit.

"You shouldn't let him bully you into allowing him up on your lap," she chides, and Blue whines and buries his head between John's arm and his side. "He's really too big to be a lapdog."

"Nah, I like him here." John pets Blue soothingly. "He's perfect lap size." Of course, usually when Blue is sitting on John's lap, he's on the couch or the armchair--a desk chair probably wasn't made to contain all of Blue's Westie floof.

"If you insist," she says. John grins and reaches over to take the mugs from her left hand, allowing her to lift the plate of toast from where it was balanced precariously on top of the bowl. "Gilbert, please eat at least two slices of toast. John, I've brought you some fruit, but George is about to make eggs if you'd like any."

"No thank you," John says. "I should probably get going after another episode or so. If Lafayette even makes it that long."

"I'm very awake," Laf says, and then lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, followed by a coughing fit.

"Yeah, right," John says. "Plus, I guess I should theoretically be limiting contact."

"Like you haven't been exchanging who knows what sort of fluids with Alexander this weekend," Laf says once his coughing is under control.

"I didn't know he was sick then!" John can feel the blush creeping up his neck. 

"Boys," Mrs. W says firmly, and they both shut their mouths and look up at her, chastened. "Gilbert, where are your keys?"

Laf gestures towards the floor by the door where his messenger bag is lying in a heap. Mrs. Washington leans over and opens the front pocket, pulling out Laf's keyring. She looks through the individual keys as she straightens up and then slides a scuffed silver one off.

"This is our house key," she says to John, holding it up for him to see. "Until Gilbert and Alexander are home, feel free to use it whenever you need to, whether it's to visit these boys or drop off their things or pick something up. Don't worry about knocking or calling ahead--just do what you need to do."

John takes the key from her and pulls out his own. He adds it to the ring that holds his car key to keep it from getting mixed up with the various others and then shoves them back into his pocket. "Thanks," he says. "Um...I appreciate it. I mean, I probably won't be coming and going a lot--" Laf snorts and John shoots him a look. "--but, it's good to have just in case?"

"It's only practical," she says. "I'll leave you boys to your show. Let me know if you need anything else?"

"Of course," Laf says. "Thank you, Martha."

"Anything you need, dear."

John waves silently as she leaves and looks down at the key again before shoving the whole thing in his pocket and refocusing on the television.

"Shut up," he says before Laf can say anything else.

As John predicted, Lafayette makes it through the rest of their episode of _Chopped_ and through two-thirds of the one that follows. Once he's flopped on his side and snuffling in sleep, John shoos Blue off of his lap, turns off the television, and quietly slips out of the room with his empty dishes. He finds Washington and Mrs. Washington in the living room, both with different sections of the Sunday paper. They look up at him as he stands in the entryway, rocking back and forth on his heels and trying to look less awkward than he feels.

"Uh, Laf's asleep," he says. "So, I'm gonna...put these in the dishwasher or wherever you need them...and then probably take off."

"Drink a lot of orange juice," Washington says, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm going to completely sanitize the apartment," John says. "I've been sick enough to last another five years at least, which is how long it's been since I was last sick." Washington snorts. "Anyway, thanks again for taking Alex and let me know if he needs anything? Or you need anything for him? Or he drives you so crazy you need to get rid of him?"

"Don't worry, we would never," Mrs. W says.

"I wouldn't speak so soon, dear," Washington murmurs, and goes back to his newspaper, even as Mrs. W smacks him with hers.

"Nah," John says. "Washington's right--I'd do a murder for Alex and there are still days I think about losing him in a Target and driving off into the sunset."

Washington might even laugh at that--it's hard to tell with the way he clears his throat and rustles his newspaper--so John cuts his losses and slips into the kitchen to put his dishes in the dishwasher, then ducks back down the hall into Alex's room to say goodbye.

Alex is still sleeping, of course, sprawled out on the pillow and drooling all over John's afghan. John sighs and lets himself be weird and clingy and nervous for as long as it takes him to cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. 

"Please get better soon, I'm really sick of dealing with all of these feelings," he says, and kisses Alex's cheek. Then he collects his coat and goes to say goodbye to the Washingtons before he heads back home.

* * *

Being in the apartment alone is...unsettling. It's too quiet, for one, even once he turns on the television. He wanders from room to room, aimlessly poking through their shared spaces. He has a ton of work to catch up on, between being out himself and covering for everyone else when they were sick, but he can't focus on anything except how lonely he feels.

Apparently his limit on alone time is five hours. 

It's worse when he goes to bed. It shouldn't be--most nights, John goes to sleep alone or wakes up alone or both. Alex only sleeps a few hours a night and it doesn't normally bother John. If he's really desperate for companionship, he'll ask Alex to come to bed with him until he falls asleep, but most of the time, if they're not having sex, he just goes to bed alone and reads until he can't keep his eyes open any longer.

He tries to trick himself into thinking it's one of those nights, into thinking that Alex is just in the other room and will be joining him eventually. It doesn't work.

Luckily, before he can do something _really_ stupid--his default cure for boredom pre-Alex was getting drunk and picking fights--his phone vibrates with an incoming FaceTime message. Alex, of course, and John rolls onto his side and accepts the call.

Alex looks even worse on the screen than he looked in person, the poor lighting of the bedroom making the circles under his eyes look deeper and darker, his skin look even paler.

"You didn't say goodbye before you left," he says petulantly.

"I did too," John says. "You were sleeping. I kissed you and everything. Also, it was like, six hours ago."

"Really?" Alex murmurs. He shuffles a little in bed and looks away from the camera, then glances back. "Oh. I guess I've been asleep for a while."

"That's one way to put it," John says. "I hung out with Laf for a little while and then he got sleepy too, so I came home. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit. I'm exhausted and I can't sleep anymore, Mrs. Washington keeps making me take medicine, you're not here...." He pouts at the camera and John bites him lip to keep back a smile.

"I know how hard it must be to survive outside of my presence."

"Yeah, not having someone wait on me hand and foot is tough."

John flips him off, but the ghost of his usual smug smile maybe makes John a little more forgiving than he might have been otherwise.

"D'you need anything?" he asks. "Anything here or anything I can pick up before I go over and see you tomorrow?"

"My laptop and books," Alex says.

"Yeah, right. You really think you'll be able to keep your eyes open long enough to get any work done?"

"I have blog shit to do," Alex grumbles. "And work shit and...school...I'm behind enough as it is."

"You fell asleep like, mid-sentence this afternoon, slept for six hours, then woke up thinking you'd barely dozed off."

"If I write two hundred words in the ten minutes I'm awake, that's still two hundred more words than I would have otherwise."

"We'll see if I'm in a giving mood."

Alex snorts and wiggles around until he's more fully nestled in the covers. He pushes his glasses up to rub his eyes and then yawns and says, "How did you spend your day without me? It was garbage, I bet."

"Always," John assures him.

They talk for another half an hour about nothing much in particular. Alex spaces out and almost falls asleep a few times, and John tries not to take it personally. By the end, he's struggling valiantly to keep his eyes open and John calls it.

"Go to bed, dumbass, stop fighting it," he says.

"I really don't want to," Alex says. "I wish--" He yawns so big that John is afraid his jaw might pop. "--I wish you were here. S'weird here. S'not home."

"I wish I was there too," John somehow manages to say despite the way his heart twists in his chest. "But we're trying to break the cycle of snot plague. Believe me, you got the easy job--you just have to lie in bed and let Mrs. W spoil you. I have to wash all of our clothes and bedding and all of Laf's clothes and bedding."

"Still miss you," Alex mumbles.

"Yeah," John says quietly. "Same. Go to sleep, okay?"

"M'kay. Love you."

"Love you too."

Alex manages to turn off his phone with only a little fumbling and then John is left, once again, in their empty, quiet bedroom. 

"For fuck's sake, when did I turn into this person?" he asks the ceiling in an attempt to keep himself from staring mournfully at Alex's empty pillow. "I hate him so fucking much."

John tries to read until he's tired enough to sleep, but an hour later and he's still pretty wired. He turns off his tablet and closes his eyes, but that's no better. He tosses and turns. He flips on the light on the bedside table when the quiet starts to creep him out, then flips it back off when it won't let his brain relax. He lies on his side of the bed, in the middle, and on Alex's. He closes his eyes and counts to fifty. He gets out of bed and swaps his t-shirt for one of Alex's that's soft and smells like his dumb shampoo. 

Nothing works. He's really pathetic.

Eventually, he gives up trying to sleep in bed. It's too quiet and too still and too lonely. He takes the comforter from the bed and brings it out to the living room instead, making a blanket nest on the couch and turning on the television. He channels surfs at first, and finally finds the opening credits of a shitty monster movie on SyFy. It helps to make the room feel less empty--it entertains him enough that he doesn't linger on missing Alex and Laf, but doesn't require so much brain power that he has to concentrate. Instead, he drifts through it, eyes half-closed, and slowly falls asleep.

* * *

John wakes up disoriented on Monday, first because he's not sure where he is and then because it's far too quiet in the apartment. The reality of the weekend dawns on him slowly, and eventually he hauls himself off the couch to face the day. He makes a list as he goes through his morning routine--he needs to meet with Dolley about a project, von Steuben about some catch-up grading he's been doing for him, and sit down with Washington and Burr to discuss how they're going to farm out work with Laf and Alex both out of commission. He needs to do probably at least five loads of laundry--all of his and Alex's dirty clothes, all of their bed linens, all of Laf's bed linens, and any other stuff he finds lying around. 

And, of course, he has to make time to go over to the Washingtons' and see how Alex is doing.

His first stop once he hits campus is von Steuben's office, where he manages to keep the conversation down to less than twenty minutes for maybe the first time in all the months he's known von Steuben. It helps that Alex texts him about fifteen minutes into their conversation--von Steuben has a soft spot for John and Alex, which John's not above using to his advantage. 

His next stop should be his desk, but Molly corners him before he can fully escape von Steuben's lab space. 

"Yo, Laurens, do you have time to go over those notes with me today?"

John hesitates in the doorway. "Um. I mean. I need to--"

"Don't hurt yourself. 'No, I don't' is an acceptable answer," she says, raising her eyebrows.

John sighs and leans against the door jamb, tugging on a loose strand of hair that's been blowing around his forehead all morning. "I'm just swamped today. I have class and a study group and two other meetings and Alex and Laf are sick, so we're drowning across the hall."

" _Again_?" Molly says. "Wasn't Ham the first post-party casualty?"

"Apparently he has a shit immune system," John says. "Or so he keeps telling me."

"You'd probably better hope yours is better--if he's sick, I'm surprised you're not sick, too."

"He's quarantined," John admits. "They both are, Laf and Alex--they're at the Washingtons' until Mrs. W deems them fit to return to society."

"No shit!" She punches his upper arm. "And you haven't invited us over to play Halo yet? Or--of course, I'm sure you're spending the evenings wasting away in loneliness."

"Haha," John says flatly.

"I'm surprised you can even function without Ham," Molly says. 

"Why are you such an asshole?"

"I think it has a lot to do with my upbringing, actually," she says thoughtfully as he scowls at her. "My parents used to watch the previous night's episode of _The Daily Show_ while we ate dinner."

John grew up with two sisters and a female best friend. Any chivalristic ideals he may have had about hitting a girl in a situation like this have long since died, so he punches her arm right back.

"I wouldn't say I necessarily deserved that for pointing out that you and Hamilton are always within arm's length of each other, but I don't doubt I deserve it for some other shitty thing I've done to you, so," Molly says, rubbing her arm. "But, in all seriousness, if you and Burr and Washington need anything, let us know, okay? I'm just about caught up and I know Dolley's been smug as shit about not getting sick."

John rubs the back of his neck. "I appreciate the offer, but--"

"No buts." Molly crosses her arms and tries to look stern, which would probably look better if she was a couple inches taller. "When literally everyone in our lab except Ben was sick, you all tripled up on work. We can take on a few things for you guys with Laf and Ham out of commission. I mean, Alex alone does like, three times the amount of work of a normal human, so."

"Thanks," John says. "We're having a lab meeting in a little bit and I'll mention it to Washington."

Molly offers him a mock salute and John waves a goodbye, finally free to flee to Washington's lab.

The space is quiet this early without Alex muttering under his breath as he works and Laf's music escaping from his headphones. Burr isn't in yet and Washington's teaching his eight am class, still. This silence is a little easier to deal with than the apartment was--the background noise at the apartment is a comfort of home, whereas the background noise here at the lab is just something he's had to get used to tuning out as he works. He speeds through some of the grading that he probably should have started last night and begins reviewing some journal articles as possible sources for a midterm paper. Burr arrives a little before nine-thirty and Washington joins them not long after, waving both of them towards his office when he sees he has their attention.

John doesn't think he's ever been alone in Washington's office with Burr before. Hell, he goes out of his way not to be alone with Burr anywhere, always doing his best to pull someone else in as a buffer. But his petty grudges are going to have to take a backseat today--they're the only people still standing at this point, and there's work to be done.

"How are you both feeling?" Washington asks to start.

"Fine," Burr says.

"Stressed," John admits. "Tired. Not sick."

Washington nods and then leans forward on his desk, resting his weight on his forearms. "What I said last week about late work and delaying your grading still holds true, but we have a department to run here. This bug has taken out a dozen people across all the parapsych labs and we're all struggling to stay on top of things. I need all hands on deck to cover classes and study groups and office hours--Alexander and Gilbert's work will need to be covered, but we'll need to cover for the other labs too, if it comes down to it. I'll need you both to step in and put in a little extra time and effort. Friedrich and Abby and Nathanael are asking the same of your classmates in their labs--until we're close to fully staffed, you'll all be working for the department as a whole rather than your individual labs."

"That makes sense," John says. "I was talking to Molly about that this morning--I know she and some of the other guys have talked about covering across labs until the snot plague passes."

"She and Ms. Payne were the ones to first broach the subject this morning," Washington confirms. "And I made it clear that the two of you would be more than willing to help however you can."

"Definitely," John says.

"Of course," Burr says.

"That being said," Washington continues, "while I may need you to take on extra work, I do _not_ need either of you to push yourselves to the point that it affects your health. If you should start to feel ill again or think you may be getting sick, please pull back as much as you need to. Do what you can when you can, but we've collectively decided to put a hold on major deadlines until at least three quarters of you are healthy. Don't make yourselves sick trying to cover everything. Understood?"

John and Burr both nod and Washington leans back in his chair. "Here are some revised time tables for you--classes that need to be covered, study groups that need to go on, office hours that need to be consolidated. Let's see what we can manage to take care of."

They spend another twenty minutes going over their schedules and farming out Laf and Alex's work. There's more of it than John expected, and his schedule gets tighter and tighter as time goes on. They don't even manage to cover everything--Washington goes ahead and cancels Laf's audio analysis study group for the week, if only because none of them have the time and expertise to adequately cover it in addition to everything else.

When they're finally finished, John trudges back over to his desk and winces as he takes it in from afar. It's covered in towering piles of folders and essays and tests, because, right, he has _his own_ projects to cover in addition to Laf's and Alex's. It's like a physical manifestation of his university email address, which is full of messages flagged for follow-up and threads he hasn't even bothered to read yet. Looking at it is making him itchy--he'll work better if his space is clean, but that means taking time away from work to organize it, which will probably kill the advantage of any extra progress he'll make by working faster with a cleaner desk. He's supposed to be meeting with Dolley in twenty-five minutes and he has a class this afternoon and a study group to lead over dinner. He really should use this time to get ahead on his actual work.

With a sigh, he sits down and grabs a dry-erase marker from his pencil cup. He begins to write out his to-do list on the white board, tacking _Clean desk_ to the end. When he's finished, he drops the marker back in with his other writing utensils and gets back to work.

"Laurens. Hey, Laurens? Laurens! Earth to John."

He's so focused on his work that it's not until Dolley taps him on the shoulder that he startles out of his research, jerking back so hard he rolls six inches backwards and nearly runs right into her.

"Jesus," she says, flinched backwards with her hands spread open up in front of her. "You know, parapsychs aren't supposed to be jumpy--it makes doing the work pretty damn difficult."

"Haha," John says. He smooths his hand through his hair and tries to calm his beating heart. "We're not supposed to meet yet."

"I know," Dolley says. "That's why I'm here--a thing came up, can we meet tomorrow instead?"

"'A thing?'"

"Yes, _a thing_ ," she says. She bites back a smile. "A good thing."

John covers his ears. "Oh god, I don't want to hear about Madison's sex life."

"Not...James." John likes to pretend he's above gossip, but he can't hide his intrigue when Dolley crosses her arms and shifts her gaze to the side. 

"Now you _have_ to tell me," he insists.

"I don't have to tell you shit, Laurens," she says. "But since I'm a nice person--" He snorts and she flips him off. "--it's just some people I went to school with in Philly are going to be in town for the rest of the week."

"Ah," John says. "Including a guy?"

Dolley rolls her eyes. "I have guy friends. So what? Anyway, James isn't my boyfriend and my life is none of your business except where it intersects with yours, which is all to say can we meet tomorrow instead?"

For a second, John debates fucking with her more, but he has so much shit to do it's easier to just say, "Yeah, sure. How about an hour or so before class?"

"Excellent, that's perfect." She types something into her phone and then shoves it into her pocket. "See you later, Laurens."

"Yeah, see you."

Dolley all but dances out of the lab. Definitely a guy. Laf, gossip hound that he is, probably knows the whole story. He vaguely remembers Dolley bitching at him and Alex at some point last term about a long-distance break-up, but it's fuzzy at best and faded by the alcohol they were drinking that night and the months that have passed in the meantime.

He reaches up to cross out Dolley's name on his white board with Alex still on his mind, so when he sits back and sees the gap that now exists between now and his afternoon class....

Well. It's now enough time to have lunch off campus. Like. Maybe at the Washingtons'.

The rest of his list is looming in front of him. His piles of work aren't going anywhere and are likely to increase for every day Lafayette and Alex remain sick. He should definitely be using this extra hour to get ahead on all of the things he still has to do.

"I'm a fucking idiot," he says ruefully, and stands up to grab his coat.

* * *

The Washingtons' driveway is empty when John pulls up, but he still feels weird parking there. He'll likely be gone before Mrs. W gets home, but he leaves his car on the street anyway and grabs the bag of Laf's requested stuff and some more amenities for Alexander before heading up the path. Laf's key opens the door no problem, of course, and he's nearly knocked over by Nelson and Blue the moment he steps inside.

"Hey, guys--hey, boys, hi," he coos. His hands are too full to pet them, but he still crouches down so they can rub up against him and nuzzle his face. "What good boys. Have you been watching Alex and Laf, huh? Having you been taking care of them?"

There's a conspicuous thump from Alex's room, so John lets each of the dogs get one more good nuzzle in and then gets to his feet to investigate. When he quietly pushes open the door, Alex is sprawled on the bed with a pillow over his face. The television is on mute and everything around him is covered in tissues.

"Babe?" John calls softly.

"This is me trying to smother myself to get away from your dog baby voice," Alex croaks. 

John relaxes and rolls his eyes, even though Alex can't see it. He pointedly closes the door behind him so the dogs can't follow him in and drops the bags next to Alex's bed, then yanks the pillow off of his face.

"Going _out of my way_ to see you on my lunch break," he says, and Alex just waves him off.

"Coming to see _the dogs_ , you mean," Alex says, and then sputters into a cough that shakes his whole frame. John drops the teasing and sits on the edge of the bed, urging Alex to sit up and then propping the pillow behind him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Alex wheezes.

"I think you still have a fever," John says, which is a shot in the dark based on how sweaty and pale Alex still looks.

"Yeah, I feel like a garbage fire, but I'm not dying of cough or whatever." Alex shifts around to make himself comfortable, then grabs another tissue and blows his nose. John starts to gather the discarded tissues together, looking around for a trash bin.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asks. "Soup? Toast? Ramen?"

"There are ice pops in the freezer," Alex says. "Could I get one of those?"

"Yeah, sure," John says. Ice pops. Why didn't he think of that last week? "Any particular flavor?"

"Mrs. W made them herself," Alex says. "I think they're all the same."

"Okay. I'll be right back."

He scoops the tissues all into the waste basket and moves it not-so-subtly next to Alex's bed, then slips out of the room. He sticks his head in Laf's room first, but he's dead asleep, so John backtracks to the kitchen. Nelson and Blue jump up from their sprawl in the living room and follow him into the kitchen, so he gives them each a treat from the jar on the counter and then fishes an ice pop out of the freezer. They're in a rectangular plastic tray and there are four of the original six left, each one attached to a rectangular base with a little straw sticking out of it. 

Back in Alex's room, his mess has been shoved back into some sort of order. His books and tablet are in a neat pile on the teevee table and he's propped up under the blankets. John hands him the ice pop and then pulls his own lunch from his messenger bag before joining Alex on the bed.

"You're gonna get sick again," Alex protests half-heartedly.

"I'm gonna avoid sticking my tongue in your mouth, so I should be fine," John says, which seems to be all the assurance Alex needs to lean heavily against his side while he sleepily gnaws on his ice pop. He grabs the remote with his other hand and turns up the volume on the television, which is playing a _Criminal Minds: Paranormal Analysis_ rerun that John has seen at least three times already.

"There's a marathon," Alex says. "This show is so stupid, but I can't stop watching it. I think the flu has destroyed my brain cells."

"Good thing you have a few extra to spare, then," John says. "Watching shit teevee is a critical part of being sick."

"There's so much _work_ I should be doing," Alex moans. "I'm so fucking behind on website shit, not to mention classes and work. I'm fucking lucky I was two weeks ahead on my stupid papers so I'm not losing any time there, but fuck."

"We're handling work shit," John lies. Well, no--it's not a lie! They're definitely handling everything. John is just choosing to put off handling it a little longer to take a long lunch with his sick boyfriend. If he was meeting with Dolley, he wouldn't be doing anything productive anyway, so it's all a wash, really. "And...I don't know, I could try and help with the website stuff if you're that worried about it."

Alex waves vaguely towards the nightstand. "Get my computer."

John does as he's told without arguing, grabbing Alex's laptop and opening it up on his thighs. 

"Open Chrome," Alex says, gesturing towards the screen with his ice pop. "Then open the bookmark folder labeled 'SR.'"

"Should I be taking notes?" John asks, and he should know better than to joke about taking notes, because Alex says, "Yes!" so emphatically he starts coughing again.

All of the stuff that Alex has him do is menial--moderating comments on new posts, answering basic emails, checking Athenodorus' Twitter, making sure the scheduled posts go up automatically like they're supposed to. And sure, being bossed around by a condescending Alexander is always sort of a pain in the ass, but it's also nice to see him so animated. Honestly, John can't pretend he's not a little excited to be in the driver's seat of the best parapsych site on the internet. He still sometimes has trouble wrapping his head around the fact that his dumb boyfriend is a world-renown expert on the paranormal. It's like Alex and Athenodorus are two completely separate people. Even in moments like this, he can't quite seem to merge them in his mind.

By the time Alex is done walking John through the basic care and maintenance of SkepticRefuted.com, he's exhausted himself completely. His ice pop is finished and he's half-asleep as they refocus their attention on the television, John's fingers gently combing through Alex's hair.

"Did you ever notice that every medium they meet on this show is--" Alex interrupts himself with a yawn. "--Sorry. Did you ever notice that every medium they meet and work with is a Class C? Every single one they meet can easily communicate with all spirits in, like, full English sentences. All of them can fully see spirits. None of them--" He yawns again. "--none of them are stuck with vague half-sentences and whispers. None of them have to interpret cloudy gestures. It's like...like...." Another yawn and John cuts him off at the pass.

"It's like Hollywood?" John suggests, one eyebrow raised.

Alex pouts at him. "I hate it when you do that."

He keeps the eyebrow arched upward. "I think you love it when I do that. I think you think it's hot."

"I do. That's why I hate it so much." He snuggles further against John's side. "Will you come back later?"

"After my study group," John promises. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"

"You," Alex mumbles. "You're warm."

"I am," John agrees.

"Come back soon."

"I haven't left yet, babe."

"But I'm gonna--" Another yawn. "--fall asleep soon and when I wake up you'll be gone."

"But I'll be back later," John promises him. 

"Good," Alex murmurs.

He doesn't say anything else for a long time. John's afraid to move to check for sure that he's asleep, but his phone chimes to remind him he needs to get back to campus and he doesn't have much choice. He tries to get up as gingerly as possible and replaces the gap on the bed with a pillow and the afghan from home, but Alex still looks small and lonely there.

"You're projecting," he tells himself with a sigh. "Go to work, idiot."

It's still another whole minute before he can force himself to leave the room and jog out to his car, already running late.

* * *

The rest of the day stretches on endlessly--John actually starts to get a little anxious as the work continues to pile up, farmed out between him and Burr and Washington at an alarming rate. Half his class is sick and half his study group doesn't show up and by the time he makes it over to the Washingtons' place, his dinner has become a wilting salad and sad smoothie from the cafe on campus. Mrs. Washington tries to push a real dinner on him, but he waves her off--he's already taking advantage of her hospitality in a pretty intense way, and he can tell that leftovers from dinner have long-since been stowed in the fridge for the night.

Alex is, somewhat disappointingly, half-asleep again when John slips into his room.

"M'glad you came back," he says when John joins him in bed.

"I did all your website stuff." It had taken him almost an hour after his study group, an hour he should have spent grading. "You're all set for the rest of the week, so don't stress."

"Kay."

"Do you want anything?"

"Stay here for a little while?"

"Yeah," John says. He's suddenly, unexpectedly, a little emotional. "Yeah, of course I will. I'm right here."

"I took some NyQuil, so...." Alex's speech is slurring. 

"So you're not long for consciousness, I get it," John says. He strokes Alex's hair, which is fucking disgusting. "Go to sleep, baby."

"I wanna talk to you," Alex insists, though he doesn't open his eyes. "How was your day?"

"Busy," John says. "Want me to tell you about it?"

"Mmhm."

"It was boring as hell, so it should put you right to sleep. So, I met with von Steuben in the morning to talk about some shit I missed when I was sick. That didn't take long because you texted me in the middle of it and he sent me off to nurse you back to health or whatever. But then Mol stopped me in the lab to try and get some notes from me and we ended up bitching about the mucous plague that's taking over campus...."

John sticks around for about an hour after Alex has fallen asleep. He's catching up on some reading on his phone and between his interest in the journal, his reluctance to leave Alex, and avoiding the frigid temperatures outside, it's hard to come up with a good reason to head back to his apartment. He catches himself nodding off, eventually, and finally gives in, tucking Alex into bed and waving goodnight to the Washingtons as he passes the living room on his way out. Nelson stops him at the door, holding up his squeaky hedgehog imploringly.

"Not tonight, buddy," he says, ruffling Nelson's fur. "It's late. Catch me tomorrow. And take care of my guy tonight, okay?"

Nelson whines at him, but gets the message well enough and weaves in and out of John's legs once, then turns and trots back towards the living room. John watches him go fondly, then freezes when he sees Washington leaning casually against the doorjamb, watching John with quiet amusement.

"Hamilton probably won't die during the night," he tells John.

"I'd feel better if you were a little more committed," John says.

"And I'd feel better if my staff were all at full health and the lab was operating normally, but we work with what we have," Washington says dryly. "Go home and go to bed, Laurens."

"Good night, sir," John says.

"Good night, son."

John's tired enough that he doesn't bother sleeping on the sofa--he changes into pajamas, grabs his blankets and pillows from where he left them tossed all over the living room, and barely pauses to plug his phone in before burritoing himself on the bed and falling easily into sleep.

* * *

It takes John four buzzes to realize someone is calling him and a fifth to actually fumble for the phone, see it's Alex, and pick up in a panic.

"Alexander?" he says breathlessly, his heart hammering, a million worst case scenarios screaming in his mind. It's the middle of the night--full dark, with the heavy, still silence that means the rest of the world is dead asleep. There's no earthly reason Alex should be calling him.

"John?" Alex sounds slow and tired, not quite himself. "I woke up and you weren't here and I had--I had a dream."

He doesn't actually sound awake, his words mumbled and slurred and quiet.

"Baby, what's wrong?" John asks. He's already sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm...okay?" Alex murmurs. "I just--"

Silence.

"Did you have a nightmare?" John asks.

"I--maybe? I don't--I think I did, I don't...remember now. I just--you weren't here, and I couldn't--I thought--"

The more Alex speaks, the more confused he sounds. John slips out of bed and grabs a pair of jeans from the floor, fumbling into them one-handed.

"Sweetheart, it's okay. You're okay," John says. "You're at the Washingtons', remember? You're sick."

"Right...right...okay." He sounds marginally less frazzled and spacey. "I just--right. I'm sorry. I'm--why did I call you, did I wake you up? Why would I--"

"It's fine," John says quickly. "Do you want me to come over there?"

Alex hesitates. "No, that's stupid," he finally says. "I'm fine, I just--I just--woke up and...I don't know, I'm...used to having you, and I just--" He shudders and makes a quiet, frightened noise, and John's heart breaks.

"I know sweetheart, I know," John says. "I'm almost dressed, I'm going to drive over, okay?"

"You don't--I just...woke up and...I can't remember...."

"You don't have to," John says. "Don't worry about it, you don't have to remember. It was just a dream. You're okay and I'm okay and it was just a dream."

"I'm not a child," Alex says. He says it more to himself than John, which settles the issue. John grabs a hoodie from the top of the dresser. "I just--I was scared."

"I know, baby," John murmurs. "It's okay. I'm leaving now, I'll stay on the phone with you in the car, okay?"

"You don't have to," Alex mumbles. "You don't have to come, I just--I don't know why--I shouldn't have called."

"No, no, no," John says. "You can always call me." He walks out into the living room and grabs his coat, struggling into it one-handed as he continues to hold the phone to his ear.

"It's...late," Alex says. He yawns. John grabs his bag and his keys and leaves the apartment. "I just woke up alone. I hate waking up alone when I'm sick. I woke up alone and I was scared."

"That's okay," he says. He locks the door and starts down the stairs, trying to go as quietly as possible. It's the middle of the night--he doesn't want to wake up the whole building.

"I should go."

"Don't bother, I'm already up, I'm already coming over," John insists softly. "You don't have to go anywhere, Alex, you can stay right here on the phone with me."

"I don't have anything to say," Alex says. He still sounds dreamy and soft, not entirely awake for the conversation. John starts walking faster and finally hits the ground floor.

"It's okay," he says as gently as he can manage. "You don't have to say anything. You can just sit there, and I'll know you're okay and you'll know you're okay."

"Mm."

It's cold as dicks, so John doesn't dawdle in the parking lot. His engine is loud in the frozen silence of the night, and he hears Alex startle over the other end of the phone.

"I'm starting the car," he tells him. He puts the phone on speaker and rests it on the seat next to him. "That's all. I'm on my way to you now."

"Okay," Alex mumbles. "Okay. You don't have to."

"I know," John says, "but I'm going to. The car's already moving."

Silence on the other end. In fact, it stays silent as John pulls out of the parking lot, as he turns down their street, as he turns onto the main road.

"Alex?" he asks again.

No answer, save for a soft snuffling sound. Alex, he assumes, is asleep again.

He reaches across to his phone one-handed and ends the call. He'll be there soon enough, and he trusts that nothing will happen to Alex in the five minutes it will take him to finish his drive across town.

The Washingtons' house is dark when John pulls up outside, and for the first time he realizes how crazy this whole thing is. He's breaking into his mentor's house because his boyfriend had a bad dream. This is...not normal. It's possible John is majorly overreacting. Alexander is an adult, he can take care of himself, he doesn't need John rushing to his aid in the middle of the night.

But John remembers how lonely and needy and touch-starved he was when he was sick, and that was in his own bed. Alex is alone in an unfamiliar place. And Mrs. Washington gave him a key. So this isn't...totally weird. 

Probably.

He sits in the car for another minute after coming to that conclusion, weighing his options, trying to decide just how crazy and clingy this makes him. In the end, he can still hear the soft way Alex said his name over the phone, and that answers the question for him. He would do anything for Alex on a normal day--he doesn't stand a chance at resisting when Alex is sick and scared.

He closes his car door as quietly as he can manage and walks swiftly up the front walk. He tries to act casual--he's very aware of the fact that he's a latino kid in a nice neighborhood in torn jeans and a black hoodie, and while people in Jersey are more likely to call the cops than shoot on sight, the only thing that could make this _more_ embarrassing would be having to explain it to the Washingtons and a police officer at two in the morning.

He unlocks the door and opens it as softly as he can, slipping inside and locking it behind him. He hears a rustling in the hallway and winces, preparing an explanation in his mind, but it's just Nelson, who trots over to him and head-butts his leg looking for pets. 

"Hey, buddy," John murmurs to him. "I thought I told you to look after my guy while I was gone." Of course, even if Alex had been awake when John left, he'd probably have kicked Nelson and Blue out of his room--John will never in a million years understand Alex's universal disinterest in animals.

But Alex is why he's here, so he scratches Nelson behind the ears one more time and then walks quietly down the hall to Alex's room. The door is open a crack and John nudges it the rest of the way open, peering inside.

"John?" Alex whispers. He's lying in bed, propped up by half a dozen pillows. He's also half asleep, with the blankets pulled all the way up to his chin. There's a nightlight plugged into the corner, letting off a faint blue glow. Just enough to allow someone unfamiliar with the room to navigate their way to the bathroom, John figures, but it's also enough to see how pale Alex looks, still.

"It's me," John confirms. "Just me." Nelson nuzzles his hand. "Me and Nelson," he amends.

"You didn't have to come over," Alex says. He sounds more Alex-like, now. Still tired and a little distant, but he doesn't seem as scared or lost as he did on the phone. "The whole point of me being here is so you won't be around me and get sick again. You didn't have to come over."

"I wanted to," John says. "I needed to make sure you were okay." He puts his bag on the floor and toes off his shoes, then gets gently into bed next to Alex, lying on top of the covers. Alex is immediately pressed to his side, arms around John's waist and clutching him more tightly than John would have expected given his current state.

"This sucks," Alex croaks.

"I know," John says. Alex's hair is stringy and sweaty and tangled, but John smoothes it out anyway, brushing it back from his face. "Just try to sleep, babe. You'll feel better if you can sleep for a little while. And if you have another nightmare, I'll be right here."

"I don't know if it was a nightmare," Alex mutters. He yawns against John's chest. "I just woke up." He yawns again, and when John looks down, his eyes are already closed. "I woke up and you weren't there."

"I know," John repeats softly. "I know, baby. I'll be here this time, okay? Just sleep."

And that seems to be all it takes. Alex is back to breathing deeply and evenly just moments later, still wrapped around John in sleep. 

That should be John's cue to ease himself out from under Alex, tuck him in, and head back to their apartment. Leave Alex here to sleep the rest of the night in peace, get some rest of his own away from Alex's germs, swing by again tomorrow morning before work, maybe....

But, he should wait a few extra minutes, just to be sure he doesn't wake Alex up. Just long enough to be positive that Alex is truly and deeply asleep. A few more minutes won't hurt.

Nelson gets up from the floor near the door and walks over to John's side of the bed, looking up at him curiously.

"Sorry, buddy, I'm not here for you tonight," he says. Nelson noses at his leg and, when John doesn't push him away, jumps up onto the bed and settles himself at the bottom, his head resting on John's feet. "He's not gonna like that," John tells him, but he doesn't make any move to discourage him.

And it would be mean to shove him out of the way when he's just gotten settled. So, really, John is doing everyone a favor by just snuggling with Alex for a few more minutes....

* * *

"So that's where you wandered off to--you found someone who let you sleep on the bed."

John's neck is stiff and he's exhausted and confused and there's a dog on his feet. The dog leaps up, and suddenly there's no longer a dog on his feet, but a dog walking over his legs and jumping to the floor, collar jingling.

He opens his eyes and blinks slowly at the light pouring in from the hallway. It takes him too long to remember where he is, especially since he can see Mrs. Washington leaning against the doorframe as he tries to orient himself.

"Oh," he finally says.

"Mmhm," Mrs. W says. "It threw me for a minute, I'll admit. I was afraid someone had broken in during the night and taken a liking to your Alexander."

"Well," John mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, "all of that is technically accurate."

"It's not breaking in if you have a key. You realize, Mr. Laurens, that the point of having Alexander and Gilbert quarantined here is so you won't be around them, right?"

"I know," John says. Alex is still mostly asleep on top of him, so he's not sure how to proceed without waking him up. "He just--he had a nightmare or something, he called me in the middle of the night and he was...panicked. Scared. I had to be sure he was alright. I needed to calm him down."

Mrs. Washington _tsk_ s under her breath, but she's smiling when she crosses the room to feel Alex's forehead. "He's still warm. He'll need some more NyQuil when he wakes up."

"Yeah," John says absently. He's staring down at Alex again, at the sallow look of his skin and the greasy tangle of his hair and the way he's frowning, even in sleep. 

"In the meantime," Mrs. Washington continues, "you should eat some breakfast. You're not going to do him any good sitting here worrying about him."

And, indeed, the mention of food seems to get the attention of John's stomach, which gurgles plaintively. He sighs and looks at Alex again. He seems to be more or less asleep, so John carefully inches out from underneath him. He tucks the blanket up around Alex's shoulders once he's standing and Alex is resting on the pillow instead of John's chest, then strokes his fevered cheek once and follows Mrs. Washington into the kitchen.

Through the kitchen windows, John can see the dim grey light of the early February morning. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast, and Washington is sitting at the table reading the newspaper as he eats his breakfast. He looks up when they walk in, then does a double-take.

"Getting an early start, Laurens?" he asks.

"You could say that," Mrs. W says, squeezing John's shoulder and then nudging him into the kitchen. "He was asleep in Alexander's room."

Washington sighs and gestures for John to come sit down, shaking his head and going back to his newspaper. "The two of you...."

He doesn't finish his thought, but Mrs. W smacks the back of his head with her dishtowel as she walks by. She pours a mug of coffee and grabs a banana off the counter, then puts both in front of John.

"I was just going to make myself some oatmeal," she says. "I can just as easily make enough for two."

"You don't have to--" John starts to say.

"Just take the oatmeal, Laurens," Washington says without looking up.

"Thank you, ma'am," John amends, and focuses on adding sugar to his coffee and futzing with his mug.

Breakfast with the Washingtons is only half as awkward as it could be. They're mostly all quiet, with John reading his phone and the Washingtons reading the newspaper, the silence only broken when Mrs. Washington offers to refill his coffee when she gets up to refill her own. Eventually, there's a shuffling sound in the hallway, followed by quiet French mumbling. Moments later, Blue ambles into the kitchen and lies down, looking plaintively at Washington.

"Gilbert's awake," Washington says, reaching down and petting the dog. "Blue was sleeping with him last night. I'll go make sure he's not trying to do anything stupid."

He gets up and pats his thigh, which makes Blue jump up again and follow him out into the hall. John watches him go, then turns back to his phone, though his concentration has been shattered. He picks at his banana and scrolls aimlessly through Twitter and wonders how long until it's acceptable to jump back up and check on Alex again.

"It's just a cold, John," Mrs. Washington says, and John looks up from his phone guiltily. He can't say he's surprised that his feelings are that transparent. "Alexander will be fine."

He breaks off another piece of banana and stares down at it. "I know. I just. Worry, I guess."

"It's understandable," she says. "I take it from George that you two aren't used to spending so much time apart?"

"Yeah," John admits. "Uh, before this week, we haven't been apart for more than thirty-six hours." He winces as he says it. "Which is--obviously, that's...insane and we need to get better about not freaking out when we can't see each other, but we've only slept separately once before now and it's different when it's like...work." He's babbling, but Mrs. W still looks sympathetic. "It's different when he's sick and I'm not...there. I don't know. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid." She reaches across the table and squeezes his wrist. "You're young and you're in love and you're allowed to be a little clingy. It may be unnecessary, but it's not stupid."

"I don't like the idea of him being alone if he's upset," John blurts out before he has the good sense to stop himself. "He hasn't had anyone to take care of him in a long time and I don't want him to have to go back to that." 

Mrs. Washington gives him such a mom look that his stomach twists with how much his misses his own. She gets up from the table to walk over and put her am around him, pressing his shoulder into her hip. 

"He doesn't have to--he has you and Gilbert and George and me," she says, and John lets out a long, soft breath. "Like I said the other day--his body can only do what it can do. These things just take time, that's all."

Right. Alex is fine, he has a cold, he'll be back to his usual annoying self in a few days.

"I'm going to go check on Gilbert before I get ready for work and you're welcome to join me," she continues after a few moments of quiet. "Or you can go back in and see Mr. Hamilton again, but you shouldn't stay here all day--that's the point of keeping them here, you know."

"I know," John says. "I have...class and stuff. I just want to see him before I go. I'll probably come back a little later, if that's still okay."

"I wouldn't have given you the key if it wasn't," she assures him.

"Thanks for breakfast," John says, because he can't quite bring himself to say _thanks for letting me be weird and gross about my boyfriend all over your kitchen._

"Any time, John," she says.

Alex is still asleep when John slips back into his room, curled up in the warm spot that John left when he got up. John sits on the edge of the bed and watches him for a moment, feeling simultaneously stupid for worrying and stupid for getting up and going to work instead of crawling back into bed and wrapping himself around Alex.

"You're such a pain in my ass," he mutters, and kisses Alex's sweaty forehead before standing and stretching. He rearranges the blankets around Alex and then grabs his bag and coat--if he hesitates much longer, he's in danger of skipping work and class and being a weird clingy hovering loser for the rest of the day. 

He gives Alex one last lingering look, then slips back out into the hallway to say goodbye to the Washingtons and go back home so he can shower and change his clothes before class.

* * *

"I can't believe you're not coming straight over here to comfort me in my sickness."

It's Wednesday evening and John is halfway between the school and his apartment. His phone is shoved into the clip in his air vent, but instead of playing music, it's Alex's voice that's coming out of the car speakers, a little craggy from sleep and sickness.

"I need to unload some of Laf's books and shit," John says. He doesn't have to hide his smile--there's no one around to see what a sap he is. "I'll take a shower and grab some clean clothes for you and come over in a little while."

"Come on," Alex whines, "I feel disgusting. I need to shower and I can't exactly ask Washington or Mrs. W."

"Ask Laf, then," John says. "He said he was going back over there to pick up the last of his stuff before he came home--I'm sure he's around."

"I don't _want_ Laf to help me shower."

"I don't know what you expect to happen in the Washingtons' shower that only I can help you with," John says flatly. He turns into the apartment complex and, as expected, Lafayette's car is missing from its usual spot. "You have the tail end of a cold, you're not dying. You can wait another forty-five minutes."

"You're the worst," Alex says.

John spends his ascent to the third floor giving Alex all the boring updates about his day. Alex only interrupts him four times, which probably means he's definitely getting better, but not as better as he'd like to lead John to believe he is.

"And how are you?" John asks, throwing some of Alex's newly laundered clothes into a tote bag. "You sound better."

"I'm _bored_ ," Alex insists, and then pauses for a coughing fit. He breaks the pointed silence that follows with, "Okay, well, coughs last for _ages_ after you stop being sick, so that's a shitty metric to measure with."

"Well, you slept through the night at least," John allows. "I mean, if you didn't, you didn't call me."

"Yeah, no, I slept through the night," Alex tells him.

"And you still don't remember calling me yesterday night?"

"Not at all." They've had this discussion twice now, but it's still unbelievable to John. It makes a certain amount of sense--Alex rarely remembers his good dreams and never remembers his nightmares. It's not completely strange that he wouldn't remember waking from a nightmare into the groggy, half-conscious state he was in when he called John for comfort. Still, they had a whole conversation--multiple conversations. John crossed town and got into bed with Alex. And Alex doesn't remember any of it.

"I was a very good boyfriend that night," John says. "Just, for the record. Since you can't remember it. You can ask Mrs. W."

"I try to avoid talking to the Washingtons about your relative merits as a boyfriend," Alex says. "Don't get me wrong--I appreciate you deeply in my soul. Most of the time."

"Hey!"

"But that's the first step down a path that might eventually lead to discussing my sex life with our best friend's parents, one of whom is also our boss, so I'd like to steer clear."

"There are about a million ways I'm a great boyfriend that have nothing to do with sex," John says. He's in the bathroom, now, throwing all of Alex's shower stuff into a plastic bag.

"Sure there are."

"You're such a fucking asshole, you know that? And to think I was going to go over there to shower you."

"Wait!" All of the teasing has melted from Alex's voice, just like that. "Really?"

"Really," John says. He grabs two clean towels from the cabinet under the sink and then he's ready to go. "Because I'm great. But now I don't know if you deserve it."

"I _super_ deserve it," Alex says. "Ignore all of that bullshit innuendo from the car, I feel like a walking germ and I can smell myself and it's not great and I desperately need to hose myself down."

"Again," John says, darting this way and that around the apartment to make sure he has everything he needs, "I don't understand why I'm the only one who can help you with this--"

"Mrs. W doesn't want me standing in hot water for that long on my own, and as laid back as I try to pretend I am, I don't want anyone but you seeing my junk."

"Fair," John says. "I'm leaving now, I'll be there in ten minutes?"

"I love you so much, you're the best boyfriend ever, I take back every horrible thing I've said about you."

"Wait," John says, slowing at the top of the stairs. "What horrible things?"

"I'll be waiting see you soon love you bye!" 

And then there's the end of the call before John can say anything else.

"What a shithead," he murmurs to the empty hall, and then continues his descent to the parking lot.

True to his word, once John gets to the Washingtons and gets Alex into the shower, sex is the last thing on his mind. He washes himself slowly and only wavers on his feet once or twice, finally giving in at the end and letting John wash his hair. John leaves him alone in the bathroom to dry off and put clean pajamas on, ducking back out into Alex's room to change the sheets on the bed and do his best to air out the room a little bit. It's too cold to open the windows for long, but between cracking one of them just a little and putting the ceiling fan on, the air feels much less oppressive by the time John is helping Alex back into bed.

"I'm supposed to be doing better, but that was fucking exhausting," Alex mumbles. 

"Yeah, well, it takes time. Your body can only do what it can do or whatever," John says, parroting Mrs. Washington. "You've already been awake more consecutive hours today than you were the last two days combined."

"Still, there's so much fucking work I should be doing."

John hums and adjusts Alex's pillows, then climbs onto the bed next to him, propped up against the headboard and stretched out over the blankets. The truth is, there's a lot of fucking work that John should be doing, too. He's doing the work of two people at this point and he definitely could be doing it faster and more attentively. It's hard pulling himself away from Alex to grade papers, though, and driving back and forth between school and the Washingtons' and his own apartment all day is exhausting.

He doesn't say any of that, though. He just lets Alex lean against him and turns on the television. "I know. It sucks. But the more chill you are about it, the faster you'll get better."

"I don't think that's medically sound advice," Alex says. He stretches and yawns and wiggles halfway onto John's lap, even with the blankets and sheets between them. "I just want to get out of here. I mean, it's not that I'm not grateful to Washington and Mrs. W for helping me out like this--I'm gonna owe them one forever. But it's not home, you know? If I'm gonna be like this, I wish I could be home. I wish I could be somewhere familiar. It's weird being away."

He yawns again and John plays absently with his damp hair. He remembers the frightened call in the middle of the night, the one that Alex doesn't remember. _You weren't there_ , he said over and over again. And John's been beating himself up over that, but he hasn't really stopped to think about it before now, either.

"Hey, so...." He's not exactly sure how to word his question, even as Alex looks up at him expectantly. "Um, it's just--the other night, when you woke up--"

Alex sighs. "John, honestly, I don't remember--"

"I know," John says quickly. "I know you don't. But, do you think--I don't know, thinking about that and about what you said when you woke up and your other nightmares...do you ever think about what your nightmares might be about?"

He's not even sure what he thinks, what he wants to say, and Alex is already looking tired and dismissive.

"I don't," Alex says. "Why would I want to think about that?"

 _Because your life has been filled with some pretty nasty trauma that you don't seem to confront at all except to talk about how you've moved past it,_ John doesn't say. _Because you talk, half joking, about how everyone in your life has left you and then wake up hyperventilating and can't be calmed down without someone to hold you through it._

"I just...I don't know, I'm thinking about it," John says. "Ignore me, I'm tired too. What do you want to watch?"

He's a coward and he's not nearly as good a boyfriend as Alex is, Alex who makes him confront his issues and work through them, who makes him address his problems so he can become a stronger person.

"Not _House Hunters_ ," Alex says quickly. "Not sports."

John idly flips through the channels. " _Law and Order_ marathon?"

"That's fine."

Alex is awake enough to be aware of his surroundings, but not awake enough to concentrate on his tablet or any of the reading or writing he should be doing. He's bored out of his skull, and John wishes he had something more to offer than television and companionship.

"Hey," John says quietly.

"Hi," Alex replies automatically, barely flickering his gaze away from the teevee.

"You know...." He turns over a few different ways to phrase it in his head. "You know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

"Untrue, you're gonna go home in like, half an hour when I fall asleep," Alex says.

"No. No, I mean--" He taps Alex's arm, and Alex blinks up at him, his eyes sleepy and drooping behind his glasses, and John is frozen for just a moment with how much he loves him. "I mean, in general. In life. I'm just--I'm here."

Alex's expression is softer, though still confused, his half smile lifting up a little further, his eyebrows relaxing from their arch. "I know," he assures John.

"I mean--I mean, you say that, but there are still times that I know you're...worried. Or afraid. And I don't want you to worry." He sounds like an idiot and he knows it. He can barely stop himself from wincing.

"I know that, too," Alex says. "But there are things...." He frowns and sucks on his bottom lip. "You can know a thing, really know it and believe it, and your brain can still use it to scare you sometimes. Especially when it's something it's used to being scared of. Does that make sense?"

"It does," John says. He thinks about the way he's still afraid to say certain things to Alex, even though he knows-- _he knows_ \--Alex will never judge him. "Yeah, it does."

"Okay," Alex says. They share a smile, small and unassuming as Ice-T and Richard Belzer banter on screen. Then Alex turns back toward the television and puts his head on John's shoulder and that's the end of that.

Which is fine, really--John can live with that. John will be here to remind him, to drive it home if he forgets--that's the point of the whole thing, after all.

And it's not until John is home, spreading his work out on the kitchen table as Laf watches television in the room behind him, that he realizes that's the closest he's come to making a promise about his own future in as long as he can remember.

* * *

"I want to come hooooome."

"I heard you the first nineteen times, shithead."

John is trying _valiantly_ not to be annoyed with Alex. Like, a Best Boyfriend Medal worthy effort. His patience should be commemorated in legends for generations to come. And no jury will convict him if he _snaps_ and murders Alexander instead, for sure.

"I just want to be in my _bed_! It's _Thursday_! I've been here since _Sunday_! This is insane, I haven't had a fever since I went to bed last night! I'm perfectly capable of being _not here_."

John leaves his phone propped against the lamp on the nightstand and falls backwards into bed, out of the range of the camera. He's _exhausted_ and lonely and it's weird that he wants to throttle Alex given the second thing, but the urge isn't going away.

"Where'd you go?" Alex calls from above him.

"I'm trying to smother myself with a pillow," John groans.

Alex scoffs and John can picture the exact affronted expression that must be crossing his face. "I can't believe how cavalier you're being about my pain!"

"I think I liked it better when you were too sick to talk." Which is a little mean, but fuck, it's hard enough being alone and exhausted and lonely and overwhelmed without having to listen to Alex complain. It's not fair, maybe, but it's been a long five days of running around while Alex slept off his fever.

"Fuck you too--you can't understand my torment."

And he doesn't mean to snap--he knows he should roll his eyes and apologize and change the subject and listen to Alex rant some more as he readies himself for bed. But before he can even process it, he's sitting up, hands balled into fists, and suddenly on the verge of either crying or screaming.

"You think I don't understand how much this sucks!?" he says. "It sucks for me too, okay? It's sucked every fucking day from the moment I woke up on Sunday morning and saw you had a fever. Every single fucking day it's been the worst and you haven't even been awake long enough to care! You've been passed out and sleeping and feverish and I've had to deal with how much it sucked all on my own for a week--a week by myself, doing three people's work, worrying about you, and driving all over fucking creation! I understand your fucking torment, okay, so get off my goddamn dick about it!"

He opens his eyes. He wasn't even aware he had closed them. Alex is gaping at him. 

"Wow."

"Shit, I'm sorry," John whispers. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I shouldn't have--that's not fair."

"No, no, _I'm_ sorry," Alex says quickly. "You're right. I'm an asshole."

"Yeah, but that's my favorite thing about you." It's a weak joke, but Alex cracks a smile and seems to relax a little. "I'm just...I'm just tired. I miss you and I'm tired. I know you miss me and you're tired too, I shouldn't have...."

"No, it's really okay," Alex says. "You can always--I know, sometimes, I'm an asshole, but I don't always know when, you know?" His nose scrunches up. "Did that even make any sense?"

"It did," John says. "And--you were just pushing it a little. You weren't being any more of an asshole than usual, my ability to deal with your assholeishness is just...depleted."

Alex nods and coughs and clears his throat and coughs some more. "I should let you sleep," he says.

"You don't have to go." And it's the truth--John doesn't want Alex to go. But he does want to go to sleep. And, unfortunately, as long as the Washingtons are keeping him, those two things can't happen simultaneously.

"I'm gonna go," Alex says. He coughs again. "If nothing else, I should take some more cough syrup and that shit's gonna knock me out anyway. You can FaceTime again before you go to work in the morning."

"You should sleep in," John protests.

"Taking a phone call doesn't necessitate a lot of higher brain power," Alex says. "I can do it if I'm a little sleepy."

John doesn't want to argue any more. "Okay, I will. Get some sleep, okay? Get better so you can come home."

"I will," Alex promises. "Fuck, if I don't get to come home this weekend...."

"Go take your cough medicine," John says.

"Go to bed," Alex says.

"G'night. Love you."

"Love you too."

John is asleep not long after the call ends and up with the sun. It's amazing how early he can get out of bed if he mopes himself into sleep at eleven pm. He's up before his alarm, showered and ready to head over to the school before Lafayette has even gotten out of bed. He feels okay after a solid nine hours of sleep, with the prospect of having lunch with Alexander in his near future. Sure, he has to go to work and continue to sift through the mountain of grading and research and writing and reading and photos that's still waiting for him, but it's Friday. The weekend is nearly here and, odds are, Alex will be home before the end of it.

Speaking of Alex, he pulls out his phone as he waits for the coffee to brew. It's early yet, but there's a solid chance Alex is awake anyway. He lets the phone ring and ring and ends the call just as Alex's voicemail starts.

No matter--he can try again a little later.

Coffee and bags in hand, John ventures out into the freezing February morning to go to work. Lafayette is still only just getting into the shower when he leaves, so he'll probably have the lab to himself for a little while--Burr doesn't usually come in first thing on Friday mornings. He can use the quiet to get some work done. 

And call Alex.

Except, once he's settled into his desk and tries calling again, he's once again met with Alex's voicemail. It's not _weird_ really--Alex has been sick, it's still really early, and John told him to sleep in. There's nothing to worry about, he's just anxious because they're unhealthily dependent on each other and it's been a few hours since they last talked.

Lafayette comes in and Burr comes in and John makes some progress on his work and texts Alex six times and tries not to actively fret.

 _call me when you wake up? love you,_ he texts not long after he arrived.

Then, _hey babe still asleep?_

And _i'm at the lab and no one else is here and probably won't be for a while._

_laf just got in but you can still call he has his headphones on_

_burr's here now too but fuck him_

_heh, kind of funny that i told you to sleep in and now i'm being weird that you're not awake. but call me okay? love you_

And despite all that, Alex still hasn't called or texted or tweeted or given John any sign that he's awake and alive.

"NyQuil really knocks you out," John reminds himself.

"Huh?" Burr asks, glancing over at him.

"Nothing," John says. Then he looks at the clock and amends, "I mean--have you seen Washington? He's late." Probably _not_ because Alex is dying from a weird disease masquerading as the flu like he's in a second-rate _House_ episode.

"No," Burr says. "He didn't say anything last night about being late this morning. He's usually good about that."

"Yeah," John says. This isn't making him feel any better. He picks up a hair tie from his desk and shoots it at the back of Laf's head to get his attention. He takes his headphones off with a scowl as he whirls in John's direction. "Have you heard from Washington this morning? He's late."

"And you could not have asked me that like a normal person?" Laf asks. John shrugs. "No. I have not heard from him. Maybe he's in a meeting."

"Maybe," John says, and forces himself not to grab his phone and call Alex again. It's quarter after ten. He can call again at ten-thirty.

He goes back to his laptop and opens his email. And glances at the clock. And selects some spam to delete. And glances at the clock. And opens Chrome. And--

"I'm gonna go get coffee," he says abruptly, getting to his feet. "Do either of you want anything?"

Burr's eyebrows lift in shock, which, okay, maybe John's never offered to do Aaron Burr a favor in his life. Lafayette, who's halfway to replacing his headphones, gives John a strange look but shakes his head.

"Cool," John says. "I'll just--I'll be right back."

He shrugs into his coat and picks up his bag, just as the door to the lab squeaks open. He glances absently in that direction and then freezes.

Washington is there, talking to someone. Talking to Alex.

"Surprise," Alex says, grinning.

It's the stupidest, cheesiest, most rom-com response he could have and he's going to fucking drag himself to hell and back later, if Alex doesn't do it for him. But in the moment, he doesn't care--he drops his bag, literally drops it to the floor, feels it slip through his lax fingers in his shock. And then he smiles like an idiot, the big stupid smile with all of his teeth that he _hates_. His whole body twitches forward with delight, but he manages to regain control of his motor functions before it can go any farther.

"You're not allowed to make fun of me for this," he says to the lab at large without looking away from Alex.

"You don't get to decide that," Lafayette says. John can hear his smirk. 

"Seriously, it's been a shitty few weeks, let me have this," John replies.

"Have what?" Alex asks, and John gives in and springs forward and wraps himself around Alex hard enough that he can feel the wind get knocked out of him.

"That," John murmurs. "You're back."

"Yeah," Alex says, and instead of making fun of John, he just hugs him harder, which is a testament to how rough it's been spending the week apart. "Yeah, I'm back. Fuck, I missed you."

"I missed you too," John says quietly. He's still squeezing Alex hard and he doesn't want to stop. It's foolish and maudlin and they're in the middle of the fucking lab and he can't unclench his fingers from where they're clutching the back of Alex's coat.

"Gentlemen," Washington says mildly, and John swallows back the traitorous lump in his throat and slowly, slowly lets go of Alex and steps back until they're standing toe-to-toe. He's still holding Alex's hands in his own and he still hasn't looked away.

"I'm still low-key pissed that you ignored all my fucking calls today," John warns him.

"I wanted to surprise you," Alex says.

"Well, mission accomplished, asshole." He lets Alex's hands slips out of his own and steps back so that Laf can give Alex a half-hug and Burr can give him a fucking vague squeeze on the shoulder. John wants to shove them all away and take Alex home with him immediately, but he recognizes that the entire Morristown University Department of Parapsychology is already running epically behind schedule and they've wasted enough time this morning.

"Mr. Hamilton, get settled in and we can have that meeting after I get back from the faculty meeting. The rest of you have plenty of work to do."

Alex looks positively gleeful at the prospect of work. He nearly skips over to his desk, which is covered in towering piles of folders and books and papers. John hesitates in his wake.

"Uh, thanks," he says quietly to Washington.

"No need to thank me, Laurens," Washington says. 

"No, I mean...really. For...all the...stuff. With him. You and Mrs. Washington. I mean--"

"You're welcome," Washington says before John can dig himself further in. "Go to work."

"Yes, sir." And John quickly crosses the room before he can say anything else mortifying.

At their workstations, Alex is staring dubiously at his desk, a little less enthusiastic than he was a minute ago.

"There's no way there was this much stuff here last week," he says.

"There absolutely was," John assures him.

"I...may regret my decision to come back to work."

John grabs the folder of notes from when he covered Alex's study group and tosses it into the mix. "Have fun," he says, and sits back down at his computer to get back to work.

* * *

For the first half of the day, it's as if time's rewound a few weeks. Everyone works and studies and reads and TAs as normal. No one has to rush around to cover for anyone else, and John actually has enough time to open the photography paper he should have been working on for the past two weeks. It's calm and quiet in the morning and into the early afternoon and then, just as John is thinking maybe they should break for lunch, Alex groans and abruptly stands up.

"I'm so fucking _tired_!" he says, and then stalks over to the sofa and drops down onto it. He curls up and pouts and does, by all accounts, look exhausted.

"Of course you're tired," John says, twisted his chair around so he can face Alex. "It's your first full day back at work. You've been in bed all week. As Mrs. W would say, your body can only do as much as it can do."

"I would like it to do a little more right now so I could make a bigger dent in this metric fuckton of work I need to catch up on," Alex grumbles.

"Yeah, well, you don't get to call those shots right now."

Alex sighs dramatically. Overdramatically, really, but once he's done lolling his head around in despair, he yawns and then holds his hands out towards John.

"Come here," he says, making impatient grabby hands. "I haven't kissed you in five days and I'm tired."

John glances absently around the room--Laf is leading a study group, Burr is in class--and then joins Alex without further hesitation.

"I missed you," Alex says again. He curls one hand around John's jaw and uses the other to brush his hair back as he examines John's face, a furrow between his eyebrows. John's not sure what he's looking for, but the reminder that it's been five whole fucking days since he kissed his boyfriend on the mouth is now looming large, so he takes matters into his own hands and leans forward to press their lips together. Alex doesn't hesitate in opening up for the kiss, pulling John closer and sighing softly, his mouth warm and familiar. When he pulls back, it's only to rest his forehead against John's and give him a tired smile.

"There," John murmurs.

"That's not even half of what I want to do to you," Alex says, but he doesn't move, except to yawn again.

"We have all weekend for that," John promises him. "For now, you should maybe take a nap."

"I just spent a week sleeping all day!"

John ignores him and leans back on the sofa, tugging Alex after him until he's indignantly sprawled across John's chest. "That's precisely why you should take a nap. Your body's not used to being awake and working so hard."

"I'm barely working hard at all."

"Sssssh." John cards his fingers through Alex's hair. "Just chill out for two minutes and then we can go and get lunch and you can get back to work."

"You can't make me," Alex mumbles, but he doesn't move. In fact, he wraps his arms around John's chest and closes his eyes.

"Wanna bet?" He gently drags his fingernails against Alex's scalp and some of the tension leaves his body; he melts against John, droopy and boneless.

"You always do that," Alex says after a few minutes of silence.

"Do what?"

"That hair thing." John stills his hand. "I didn't say _stop_ ," Alex grumbles.

John resumes stroking Alex's hair. Alex can't see his face, which is good, because he thinks he's blushing. "I've never noticed," he admits.

"All while I was sick," Alex says. "Even when my hair was gross. And other times too--when I wake up from nightmares or last month when we were in Pennsylvania with Washington and Silas Deane and I was so tired all the time." John tries not to react to that--they haven't talked about that weekend since it happened and he'd like to keep it that way. "I'm not complaining. You just do it a lot."

"I guess...I guess it's because my mom used to do it to me," John says slowly. He really hasn't thought about it before, but now the answer is embarrassing and transparent. "When I was little, if I was sick or upset, that's how she comforted me. Just kind of...held me and stroked my hair. Martha and the kids too, but...yeah. After she died...my dad didn't really do that, ever--and before you say something shitty and ruin this moment, he had other ways of comforting us, he just didn't pet our hair--but the point is that it stopped after she died. And...I don't know, I never really had a mom again after that, so that's what stuck with me. When someone is upset, you pet their hair to comfort them."

Alex hums, the noise vibrating through John's chest where Alex's cheek is pressed against it. "You're fucking adorable. Don't argue with me about it--you are, you're really fucking cute, okay?"

"Don't be an asshole," John sighs.

"I'm not being an asshole." Alex's grip on John tightens. "I'm not, okay." He opens his eyes and tilts his head so he can look up at John. He looks so much better than he has this week--his eyes are clear, the bags underneath them are closer to their normal color, his skin is warm and a little flushed, his lips no longer chapped and cracked. His eyelashes are so long from this angle that John is honest to god distracted from what he wanted to say. "It makes me happy that you do this to me because your mom did it to you, okay?" When John doesn't argue further, Alex closes his eyes again and lays his head back down on John's chest.

"A lot of my memories of my mom are from when I was sick," Alex continues quietly. "I wasn't kidding when I said I was sick all the fucking time as a kid. And my mom worked like, three jobs to support us, so our only real quality time together was when I was sick at home in bed and she would take some time off to stay with me and make sure I was okay."

"That was sweet of her," John says.

Alex hums in agreement. "It was nice--just...having her there when I woke up. Knowing that when I fell asleep, she would be there when I opened my eyes again. A lot of the time she'd let me sleep in her bed--sick day perk, you know? I mean, it made sense--her room was on the first floor and I was sharing a room with James, so keeping me quarantined where she could keep an eye on me while still cooking and cleaning and getting shit done around the house. But it was nice, to wake up and have her sitting there next to me, reading or watching teevee. That's why--"

He stops, abruptly. So abruptly that John looks down at him. It's not often that Alex falters, especially once he starts monologuing. John twists his fingers through Alex's hair and rubs the back of his neck gently. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Alex. In fact, Alex is quiet for so long that John is sure he's fallen asleep.

And then he speaks again. "When I woke up in the hospital--the last thing I had remembered was Mr. Stevens shaking me awake. My mom and I had been in her bed and we were both so sick...he told me he was calling the doctor and that I had to stay awake, but I passed out again and when I woke up, I was alone. Then a doctor came in and he told she had died and...." He breathes out, long and slow. "After that, I just got used to being alone when I was sick, I guess. Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were both so busy--I wasn't their kid, after all, and they weren't like...mean to me. But they basically just made sure I was okay in the morning, called home at lunch to check on me, and that was it. They didn't stay with me. And, you know, I was like, thirteen by then, I didn't need to be babysat. And then I was in college on my own and now there's you."

"I'm sorry," John says, closing his eyes. "I shouldn't have let them take you, I should have stayed--"

"No, no, no," Alex starts to say before John has even finished his sentence. "That's not what I'm--" He shuffles and twists so he can half sit up. John immediately regrets whatever it was he said to spur that reaction--he already misses the warm, heavy weight of Alex resting on his chest. "I'm not complaining. Mrs. W is right, we were stuck in a germ cycle, you would have just gotten sick if you stayed with me. What I'm saying is...it's been a really long time since someone cared enough to take care of me when I was sick and be there when I wake up."

"Oh," John says. It's stupid--it makes him _sound_ stupid, there are a million better things to say, a million ways to react, but all he can do is murmur that one word. Alex is staring into his eyes and he's pinned down and flayed open and every bit of him is on display, he knows it. Everything he feels. He can't hide anything from brilliant, beautiful Alexander, least of all when he's so earnest and staring at John with such intensity. 

"It's like...safety," Alex says, still staring at John. "It's knowing that even if you're not right next to me, you're somewhere and you're willing to fucking fight monsters for me if you have to. Security, you know? That I'm not facing this shit alone."

"I know," John says, because he's wholly incapable of saying, _oh god yes, I get it, I feel the same way, some days you're the only thing tying me to this planet and I need you to keep me here._

"Good," Alex says, and he leans over and takes John's face between his hands to kiss him again. John's eyes slip closed and he tips his head to the side and lets all of that concern and anxiety seep out of him as Alex holds him still and they share kisses and breaths. He opens his eyes again when Alex releases him.

"Are you okay?" he asks Alex. He's not sure what else to say.

"Yeah," Alex says. "Tired. Are you?"

"Yeah," John agrees. "Come on, lay down again. Close your eyes for five minutes and then we can go get lunch."

Alex lowers himself back down until he's resting his head on John's chest against. "Before you said two minutes."

"Yeah, and then you wasted all that energy talking about your feelings, so now we're up to five," John says. Alex laughs softly, but he does close his eyes and he doesn't argue further. "Sleep for a little bit. I'll be here when you wake up."

"I know," Alex murmurs. "I know you will."


End file.
